Holidays in Your Heart
by whatifellinlovewith
Summary: "The baby is already kicking, awoken by her stillness after having let her sleep through the night, and it intensifies everything, the reminder of how far they've come, that life grows within her even though she almost lost her own less than two years ago." Castle brings the Christmas season to Beckett while she's on bed rest. A Pulse Sequel.
1. Chapter 1

_**December 1st**_

* * *

She wakes with her back against his chest, the warmth of his arms around her waist soothing, a calming caress over the swell of her stomach. Her eyes are still closed when she smiles, as soft as his touch on her belly, the product of this quiet love they share in the silence of morning. The simmer of affection in her chest erupts at the ease of the moment, long minutes when she can forget about everything but him and the stir of life beneath his hands.

The baby is already kicking, awoken by her stillness after having let her sleep through the night, and it intensifies everything, the reminder of how far they've come, that life grows within her even though she almost lost her own less than two years ago.

Behind her, Rick must sense her wakefulness, his arm tightening its grip around her, the other drifting along her side to climb the ladder of her ribs, flatten against her chest where the beat of her heart is steady. His own smile blooms, only to be pressed against her neck, smudged with a kiss to her skin.

"He's kicking a lot," he whispers, hand pressing harder against her baby bump, spurring the movement from within.

She hums her response, nestling herself deeper into her pillow when she nods in agreement. "I like it," she admits. "Lets me know he's okay in there."

Rick kisses her neck again, lifting his hand from her chest to comb through her hair instead, tucking stray strands behind the shell of her ear, and again to tilt her head towards his. She stays curled on her side, rolls her head against the pillow so she can catch his gaze, see the severity there that's grown far too familiar since the day she'd first muttered of the possibility of their baby not surviving.

The day she'd sat in the bathroom, heart pounding, healthy in her chest, a white plastic stick shaking in her hand as she'd stared at the result. When he'd found her sitting there, he'd dropped to his knees at her side and wrapped her in his arms, promised her it would be okay despite the nausea churning in her stomach and the exhaustion rooted deep in her bones and the doctor's orders to be on strict birth control due to the high risk nature of pregnancy after transplant.

Exhaustion lingers, had drawn her back until she could no longer complete full days at work and staying curled up in bed at all times seemed far more appealing than the alternative. A side effect of pregnancy, intensified by the stress to her body, still coping with the effects of having its heart removed and replaced with his.

"Hey," he breathes, drawing her back to the present with the dust of his fingers across her cheek. "The baby's okay."

She nods, even as her gaze falls from his to hide the fear there, disguise the uncertainty with the shy flutter of her lashes against her cheeks. "I know," she says. "I still like to feel him kicking, though." She pauses, reaching down to coast her hand over her stomach, thread her fingers with his where they linger over their son's constant movement. "It just…makes me worry less."

He offers a smile, half hearted and laced with concern for _her_ , only to press it to her cheek, and again to her mouth in a soft kiss that has the knot in her chest loosening, breaths coming easier even as the worry lingers, a constant echo through her system.

Rick's long since stopped telling her not to worry, utterances of such words having died on his tongue the day she'd gotten a doctor's order to cut her workload in half. But he breathes it past her lips, communicates it in the silence with the brush of tongue across hers, the caress of his hands on her skin.

"Try not to worry," he whispers, the words pressed to her mouth, punctuated with a kiss to her cheek. 'There's nothing to worry about yet."

But there is, he knows as well as she does. The lingering echo of warnings spoken by Dr. Davidson when she'd first informed him of her pregnancy, a list of things to look out for as indications that growing new life would be too much pressure on the heart that saved her own. The knowledge that the fatigue constantly drawing at her mind is one of those things, as is the facility of numbness tingling at her extremities, cold that laces through her fingers.

"I know," she lies, eyes fluttering open to catch his, drift along the smile curled at his ips.

His hand drifts along her belly once more, slipping from her grasp to drift along the swell there, the silent threat to her life that she so easily accepted, could never imagine being without, as he leans down to kiss her again.

* * *

The chill sweeps along her nape, shudders along the length of her spine, to have her reaching up and drawing the scarf tighter around her neck. Her gloved hand coasts along her cheek as she does so, reawakening the nerves there, numbed by the cold, the slightly chilled fabric of a stark contrast to her usually freezing fingers.

It has Rick tightening his arm at her shoulders, drawing her deeper into his embrace, pressing her harder against the length of her body. He dusks a kiss to her head, barely felt through the thick fabric of the beanie he'd tugged onto her head before they'd left the loft.

"Cold?" he asks.

She hums, pressing her head into the warmth of his woolen coat in an attempt to relieve the bite of the chill at her cheeks. "Just a little," she mumbles in response.

He kisses her again, hand lifting for his side to curl around hers. Warm even through the thin fabric of their gloves, soothing the ache of frozen bones there. "Your hands?"

"Cold," she answers, a half truth when she can barely feel them anymore, isn't sure she can blame it on the sweep of winter over New York City, if it's once again the fault of stress on a heart struggling to handle it all.

He silences her worries with the brush of his hand along her belly before he's drawing her with him to the edge of the sidewalk, sweeping through pedestrian traffic to find the familiar glass door to their favorite restaurant. Frosted letters stare back at her, suiting the draw of the season as it falls upon them, until he's shoving the door open and ushering her inside.

"Oh."

The sight before her is unexpected, a reminder of the blur her life has become since work was cut to signing and initialing paperwork, showing up to meetings on occasion and consulting by phone on the rare occasion she's needed. Days have blurred together to a loop of consciousness and being stolen away by the draw of exhaustion to sink into sleep, dates on a calendar blending one into the other, from November to December.

Remy's is a picture of the holiday season, the embodiment of Christmas done well. Garlands trace the edge of the front counter, line the barriers between booths. Jingle bells ring through the air, met with the soft sound of instrumental Christmas music. Figurines and ceramic buildings mark the ends of the order counter, holly poking out from between them, mirrored in the sprig sitting atop each napkin holder.

"Kate! Rick!" calls a voice from behind the counter, drawing her attention from the Holiday decor. The restaurant's owner, Mrs. Henderson, is already stepping towards them when Kate looks up, smile stretched wide across her face. "Don't forget about tradition," she adds, pointing towards the ceiling above their head.

Where mistletoe hangs from the ceiling, draws a smile to Kate's face.

Rick makes a show of pressing a kiss to her lips, affection and joy seeping into the touch of his mouth to hers, met with the return of his hand over the swell of her stomach. His thumb traces circles through the thick fabric of her coat, making her melt against him, give into the tenderness of his touch, the reassurance laced within it. His love bright and evident, enough to loosen the tight knot of anxiety in her chest where it's been clenched tight since the day she first learned of the life nestled within her.

"Oh, how adorable," comes Mrs. Henderson's voice from beside them. "How's the little one doing? Oh, it's been so long since you've been here. You have to try our Christmas cocoa and gingerbread men." She turns away from them both, leading them back towards the counter until Rick and Beckett are following behind her. "So, what can I get for you?"

He smiles. "Well, I've been told we _have_ to try your hot chocolate, so one for each of us," he tells Mrs. Henderson, checking with Kate for quick confirmation. "And three of your gingerbread cookies."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course you would get two for yourself," she says, punctuating the words with a chuckle.

But he squeezes her hip, draws her closer to him once again. "Two are for _you_ ," he counters.

"Rick, I don't want two cookies."

He lets out an exaggerated sigh, as at ease now as ever and the familiar dramatic flair to it has her muffling a laugh against his shoulder.

"Fine," he huffs. "Then one's for you and one's for the baby."

It has her rolling her eyes again as her husband grins down at her, knowing she'll give in, faced with such kindness, such easy calm and affection for their baby in the faee of serious threats to her health, to their child's.

She might be panicking, but he's buying their baby a gingerbread cookie. So she ends up eating them both.

* * *

They've been to this hospital countless times, spent weeks laid up in its beds, walking its halls. Months coming and going, having ECGs and echocardiograms and cardiac stress tests, waiting hand in hand for bad news to come only for it to remain a distant certainty. Until a year passed and everything was still okay, his heart still beating steadily in her chest, a stranger's strong in his.

And then she'd found out she was pregnant, had been whisked into a blur of appointments with various physicians all delivering the same bad news, bittering the split second of sweetness she'd allowed herself to indulge in. Explanations of her increased risk of miscarriage, of complications, of preterm delivery, of _death_.

It had been worse than waking up in a hospital bed to news that she was dying, came at a point in her life when she had so much to care for. Had torn her apart until she was sinking into bed with her husband's arms around her, kisses pressed to her head and whispers of reassurance against the shell of her ear.

Today, she decides, is the worst day since that one, a bitter truth having spilled from her obstetrician's lips rather than the usual utterance of _you're still beating the odds, Kate._ A statement, a warning, an explanation of the threats that are so much more imminent now as the child they'd once told her probably wouldn't make it this long continues to grow within her.

And Rick must sense it, must feel it himself. The tension of uncertainty that hangs in the air from the moment they leave the doctor's office, the weight of potential hurt heavy in his chest like it is in her own. Because he wraps his arms around her the moment they step into the loft, closing the door with his back as he draws her against him.

The press of his lips to her head is reminiscent of the day they'd told her the probability of complications.

"It'll be okay," he whispers, mumbling the words into wisps of her hair. "You and the baby are fine."

She has to remind herself that the stuttered flip of her heart is _normal_ , an emotional reaction and not a sign of impending failure, finds herself burying her face in his chest to swallow back her pessimism. It has his fingers coasting along the length of her spine, his other hand drifting from her back to flatten over the swell of her baby bump, where their son's kicks are a steady reminder that everything's okay.

 _For now._

"She put me on bed rest, Rick," she chokes out, as though he needs the reminder, hasn't already committed to spending the upcoming weeks taking care of her.

" _Modified_ bed rest," he counters.

It makes a difference, she knows it spells an entirely different lifestyle, knows it's not quite as bad as she's making it sound. Logically, she knows, but it doesn't loosen the clench of worry in her chest.

She pulls away slowly, leaning back into the pressure of his hand at her spine, allowing him to see the sheen of tears in her eyes, the draw of fear at the corners of her lips. "My blood pressure's going up," she mumbles. "Dr. Davidson said—"

"That elevated blood pressure could pose a threat to your cardiovascular system given your medical history," he says, baritone smooth and steady, unshaken by the news they'd received. Soothing even though she knows the calm is forced, can feel the panicked race of his heart beneath her hand as it drifts along his chest. "But Dr. Fields said it was barely outside the normal range, and that steps being taken at present are merely precautions to diminish the risk of further elevation."

He's right, reminds her of such with the slight smile that curls at his lips, another attempt at reassuring her. But she doesn't respond, can't explain the anxiety to the man who already knows it too well, has it pounding through his own stressed system, a steady beat against her palm.

His own hand drifts along her stomach at her silence, coasting the evidence of her pregnancy, pausing on the spot where the baby is still kicking against the barrier of her skin.

"You're thirty weeks pregnant," he whispers. "Seven months ago, no one knew if you would even get this far. A year and seven months ago, we didn't even know if you were going to live through the week." His smile widens, gaze flitting along the length of her body only to catch her gaze once more, show her the love, the _pride_ , gleaming in his eyes. "And look where you are now."

She swallows against the well of denial up her throat, finds herself fighting for a response only to bury herself in him once again instead. He folds his arms around her once more, wiping away the lingering threads of imminent panic laced along her spine.

"You're always beating the odds, Kate," he mumbles. "You and our little boy, and I have no doubt will continue to do so."

* * *

Attempts at distraction are feeble, a failing method of silencing the voice in her head pointing out every sign that something might be wrong, forgetting the doctor's earlier warnings. But they try anyway, talking over dinner, curling up on the couch together to drown themselves in the blur of an action film rather than the dizzying reality. Her attention flits between the movie and the spin of thoughts in her mind, surroundings blurring at the loss of focus until she's being shaken lightly back to the present.

Her head has fallen to rest on Rick's lap, eyes closed against the flash of lights on screen that has now faded to the steady roll of the credits. She's drawn her hands into the sleeves of her pajama top, clenched cold fingers around the fabric of her shirt, drawing warmth from herself, from the press of her husband against her body.

His fingers trace patterns in the strands of her hair, tugging knots free with gentle passes across her head, making her eyes flutter with fatigue once again.

She's only half aware of the returned clutch of exhaustion over her frame, deep rooted in her bones. The heaviness of her body that has her unwilling to move despite the longing for the softness of a mattress beneath her frame, to curl up on her side, draped under blankets, until the baby settles on her bladder and draws her from the comfort of night.

Her will to fight is gone, too, lost in the abyss of imminent unconsciousness, even as Rick shifts her on the couch, an arm finding the crook of her knees, the other rolling her onto her back and looping under her arms. He lifts slowly, carefully, cradling her body to his chest as though he didn't have his own heart removed and replaced less than two years ago, too.

But he doesn't have a budding life depending upon him, straining the already stressed muscle to do _more_ when it's compromised without the insistent need to be more productive.

She presses her head to his shoulder at the thought, hates the fleeting moments when she wonders what her life would be if she'd never gotten pregnant, hates herself for them. And chooses to mumble of strength she isn't sure she even has instead.

"I can walk."

He drops a kiss to the top of her head. "I know," he promises. "But you're tired and you don't have to."

The press of her body against the mattress is tender, a gentle slip of his arms from around her body to allow her to get comfortable. His hand drifts over the swell of her stomach before he's stepping away, sliding onto his own side of the bed until he's pressed to her back, nudging one arm into the gap between her neck and the mattress, the other coming up to sweep hair from her face.

She's half asleep already when he presses a kiss to her temple, drawing her body tighter against his as he does.

"Don't worry," he mumbles, words hazed by the fog of fatigue in her mind. "We'll be okay. We'll make this time special, okay?"

The hum of response might be a thought rather that execution, much like the smile she hopes curls at her lips, before she sinks into his embrace completely and fades into the oblivion of sleep.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for helping me with the idea, the title and for looking over this chapter, she's truly amazing.**


	2. Chapter 2

_**December 2nd**_

* * *

She blinks at the cascade of bright light through the blinds when she wakes, fighting the burn of sun at her eyes as she drifts between consciousness and sleep. Her head presses deeper into the pillow, hiding one eye behind the swell of foam around her head as she sinks into the bed, catering to the protests of her body by indulging in a few more moments of almost-oblivion, teetering on the edge of awareness.

Her gaze bypasses the clock on her nightstand when she forces her eyes open once more, avoiding the reminder of how drained the stress of pregnancy has her.

Before her heart had failed her, she prided herself on her ability to rise before the sun with ease in order to make her way to the lastest body drop, or with daylight to wake herself with a morning run. But that was before a bullet had made her heart stop, before scar tissue had done the same, before a risky medical procedure had saved her.

Back when a baby wasn't weighing heavy within her, a stress to a system that could once barely handle the demands of lying in bed and sleeping half the day.

She swallows back the thought, letting her hand fall to her stomach, to where the baby had woken her with jabs of tiny feet. She traces the epicenter of the movement, where she can feel the kicks against her palm the way Rick feels them, a smile creeping across her features despite her hatred for the effects of her pregnancy.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, a breath to her baby. "Mommy doesn't blame you for this, promise. We can blame my heart together."

The baby kicks again, a response to her voice or a continuation of his movements, she doesn't know. But it loosens the guilt in her chest, the debilitating pain of feeling like a terrible mother for hating the symptoms that have come with her pregnancy despite the reward of giving life her to unborn little boy.

"Maybe we can blame your daddy for that," she continues. "It was his heart first, you know."

"Hey!"

She looks up to see Rick stepping into the room, a benign smile on his face despite teasing severity to his tone. He makes his way over to her with slow steps until he's dropping onto the mattress by her thighs, settling himself against the jut of her knees, one hand reaching back to curl at the back of her leg. The other settles on the swell of her stomach, nudging hers aside so he can feel the movement of their son for himself.

"You bashing my heart to our son?" he asks, voice lilted, teasing.

But she offers a serious smile in return, snagging his fingers with hers and drawing them to her chest, resting over the cage of her ribs where it climbs to her collarbone, because she can't reach his. "Your heart is amazing," she promises, swallows back the reminder that it's the only reason she's alive today, that she would have died without his adamance with regards to saving her. "The literal one and, especially, the metaphorical one."

His smile widens at that, a soft affection spreading across his features as he leans towards her, presses a soft kiss of morning greeting to her lips. "You would know," he says, a mumble against her mouth. "You stole them both."

She squeezes his fingers as he pulls away, drawing his gaze to hers. "You'll tell him the story of how we met one day, right?"

He frowns at that, brows furrowing as his gaze falls to their joined hands, the hidden spot where their son continues to make his presence known. Rick presses their hands harder against the swell of her baby bump, smiling at the strength of the next kick from their little boy.

"Yeah, you already know that story, don't you Cosmo?" he says.

She feels confusion drift across her features before she realizes Rick must have whispered the tale to their baby while she was asleep, before he's turning to face with her with certainty shining in his eyes.

" _We'll_ tell him."

Her throat clogs at that, the well of emotion shocking, stealing whatever response she may have formulated. She hadn't _meant_ to imply that she wouldn't be there to share the moment, just that he was the writer of the two, the one with the eloquence to tell a tale of overcoming tragedy together rather than merely sharing a hospital room as they mutually waited for death.

But before she can apologize for the implication, he's leaning down, kissing her again. "How's your energy level right now?" he asks. "Because if it's good, then I have a surprise for you."

"Huh?" she mumbles back.

His smile returns, wide and happy. "You'll see."

* * *

She follows his path from their bedroom once she's slipped from her pajamas into an outfit that could double as such, stepping through his office, past the walls of books sure to keep her entertained over the weeks to come, and into the living room. But Rick is standing in the kitchen, his gaze sensed as it follows her movements, the waddling steps born of a baby in her stomach, a center of balance she's eternally adjusting to.

He's leaning against the dining room table, where they only eat when they're trying to be fancy, enjoying a date night in the privacy of their home or inviting guests over to revel in life together. But today the loft is empty spare for the two of them, the kitchen lights dimmed, her husband watching her with a mischievous smile she's come to know too well.

"What are you up to?" she asks, stopping in front of him.

His smile widens, stays that way when he fails to answer with words. Instead, he steps aside, drawing out the chair against which he'd been leaning and motioning for her to sit. His hand coasts along her spine, offering support as she eases herself into the chair, met with what he'd been planning this morning.

A plate of pancakes sits right in front of her, paired with a tall glass of orange juice, but beyond that lies decorations that hadn't been there the day before. A garland of plastic pine is draped along the center of the table, over a puff of cotton snow. Candles, old ones she'd brought with her when the move to the loft was made official, sit twined within it, unlit. Against one of them leans a boxed advent calendar for kids, a cartoon image of Santa Claus staring back at her.

"What is this?" she breathes, reaching for the calendar only for her hand to settle somewhere safer, curling around the cool metal of her fork instead.

He laughs, a quiet puff of amusement against her cheek as he presses his hand harder against the base of her spine, leans down to kiss the side of her head. His other hand reaches past her, grabs the cardboard advent calendar from where it's sitting and draws it closer, setting it adjacent to the plate of pancakes before her.

"This, Kate, is how we're going to count down the days to Christmas, with delicious no name brand chocolate," he says.

She rolls her eyes. "I know what an advent calendar is, Rick," she huffs. "I mean, why do we _have_ an advent calendar?"

He kisses the side of her head again before pulling away, dropping into the chair nearest her. Leaning forward, he catches her hand with his, twining their fingers over the surface of the table, his gaze falling from hers to trace her baby bump. "I told you, I'm going to make these next few weeks special for you, bed rest or not."

The memory flashes, a hazy, broken image of the final moments before she'd fallen asleep last night, the promise he'd mumbled into the silence of their bedroom as she'd faded away.

"Rick–"

It's a flurry as he releases her hand, rushes away before she can finish speaking. He darts into the kitchen, swipes something from the countertop and returns to her side, falling back into his seat with an exaggerated huff, reminiscent of the weeks spent recovering when the quickness of his steps would have been exhausting.

She ignores the pang in her chest at the reminder that such activity exhausts her _now_.

He's smiling when she looks at him again, one hand outstretched towards her, holding a small box wrapped in red paper with a gleaming silver bow on top. Enough to have affection cracking across her features, tugging the corners of her lips upwards with joy despite the urge to roll her eyes at her adorable dork of a husband.

Instead of taking the box, she reaches forward, snags the advent calendar and draws it towards her, presses it to her chest so he can see the numbered squares hiding chocolate behind them.

"In case you forgot, it's not Christmas yet," she teases.

"Yes, well, no harm in giving my wife gifts in the days leading up to Christmas, does it?" he counters.

"I don't know, my parents always taught me that Christmas wasn't about the presents."

A hint of severity crosses his face at that, his free hand shooting forward to land on the bump protruding between them, tracing circles through the fabric of her shirt. His gaze flicks from her eyes to the advent calendar, though she thinks it might be directed at the cage of her chest.

"That was before you almost died, but found the love of your life instead," he says. "And before you got pregnant, only to put your own health and livelihood on the line to carry our child."

There's a quirk of his lip masking the heavy implication of the words, failing to shield her from the onslaught of memories. Of somber advice offered in the brightness of a hospital exam room, doctors asking if she would consider terminating only to be cut off by the adamant shake of her head.

She'd never been a baby person, but even then, before ultrasound pictures and budding movements caused affection to unfurl within her chest, she couldn't consider aborting the baby who felt so much like the fate Rick spoke of so surely when he told their story.

"So let me spoil you," he finishes.

Swallowing back the bitter crush of recollection, she leans forward, shoves at his shoulder in mock anger. "Now I can't say no," she protests, swiping the wrapped box from his palm as joy crinkles his features.

She unwraps the gift slowly, until she's lifting the lid from it to reveal a pair of christmas ornaments with loops of matching ribbon. One gleaming with silver letters spelling _Our First Christmas_ , a pair of matching wedding rings at the top, holding the ribbon in place. The other simpler, shaped like a cloud and etched with the words _Baby's First Christmas_. Beautiful, so perfectly thoughtful.

Next to her, Rick is rambling about which pictures they could use for each ornament, voice lilted with glee before she silences him with the press of her lips to his.

* * *

The sweetness of her second chocolate of the day is still on her tongue when he wraps his arms around her, helps her lift from the bed. She expects him to lead her to the couch, curl up with her under layers of throw blankets and pretend the flash of images on a TV screen will be enough to entertain her until the baby arrives. But he doesn't, the gentle pressure of his hand at her spine leading her away from the main living area, towards the loft door.

"Rick," she mumbles.

"How's your energy level?" he asks.

She rolles her eyes, hating that it must be asked when she _just_ woke up from the afternoon nap her body forced her to take. "Good, but–"

"I know," he breathes. "Don't worry, we're not going far."

With gentle hands, he helps drape her coat over her shoulders, draws gloves over her hands, a hat a over her head. Fingers drift along hers, brush across her nape as he frees hair from her collar. His lips coast over hers for a split second before he's turning away to dress him, bundling himself with unnecessary warmth that she knows is intended to comfort her with regards to her body's failure to maintain a steady temperature.

Darting back into the loft for a moment, he returns with a thick woolen blanket tucked under one arm. His free arm bands around her waist as he shoves the door open, shatters her expectations when he leads her away from the elevator, towards the staircase leading to the rooftop instead. But protests die on her lips when he shoots her an expectant glance laced with affection, willingness to turn back if she so desires, but an undertone of hope that she'll go along with the surprise.

He's truly intent on making the month to come special for her, but she's sure he could do that with nothing but the childlike glee and bright glow of love that makes its way across his features.

The walk to the roof is slow, but when they emerge into the winter cold above their home, she finds a smile creeping across her face as the wind tangles in her hair, raising chills across her neck that she'll later have to soothe. The chill of the New York winter bites even through the layers of fabric draped over her body.

Rick steps up behind her after a moment, arms looping around her middle, settling just over the curve of her baby bump, chin pressing against her shoulder as he drops the blanket he'd brought with them to the concrete of the roof.

"It would be better if it were snowing." He presses the words to her skin. "More Christmasy."

She shakes her head, drawing him closer to the edge of the building, so she can glance over the edge at the streets below, the flow of pedestrian and cars as they follow paths through the city. The loud bustle of life, so constantly alight with energy, a stark contradiction to her current state of incessant fatigue and limitations.

His arms tighten around her, lips pressing to her shoulder to barely be felt through her coat. "I know you're not big on Christmas," he whispers, a quiet remembrance of the last holiday season they'd shared.

She'd confessed it into the silence of his bedroom, body draped over his, ear pressed to his chest back when the swell of a baby bump didn't prevent it. In the midst of the holiday season, as they hid away from the spread of viruses across the city, immunosuppressant doses still too high for them to withstand the threat winter brought with it. He'd rambled on about Christmases spent with Alexis when she was young until she'd interrupted with a bitter, mood-killing utterance of _I don't really like Christmas_.

A year later, she can still feel the hitch of his chest under her body, the flood of anxiety that had filled her, until her explanation had his features softening, a comforting smile curling at his lips before he'd smudged it against her worried frown.

"And I get it if you don't want December to be this big thing. Just tell me to stop if it gets to be too much," he continues, drawing her back to the present with the press of his lips to the side of her neck. "But I know you're freaking out about the pregnancy, and I just want to distract you, make you smile."

She nods, slow and steady, gaze falling back to the street below them.

The desire for the ability to better explain herself blooms like it so often does as her gaze follows the paths of people and vehicles alike. To be able to explain as perfectly eloquently as he does the warmth that spreads through her chest despite the outside cold, the simple appreciation of a single moment that has a smile drawing at her features. How perfect this rooftop idea was, snowing or not, for the simple evidence of the Holiday season below.

He would be able to find the words, spin a poetic explanation for the simple shift in the city. How the holidays seem to bring with them a sense of calm foreign to New York, an ease of life people never associate with the city. As though December brings with it silent flurries of snow and new displays in stormfronts that calm the constant demand for action, remind people of the possibility for joy no matter the typical brashness of the city of millions.

It makes no sense, might be a delusion induced by the distance between herself and the people below, but she finds it calming the constant crackle of nerves within her, easing the tension of pessimism in her chest.

Her head falls against his shoulder, turning to catch his lips in a quick kiss.

"No," she breathes. "Don't stop."

His smile is wide, so happy that it erases any lingering fear of possible regret. He kisses her again, soft and sweet as his arms tighten once more around her middle, hold her tighter to his chest.

She turns her gaze back to the city, the constant ripple of motion below, hands drifting until her fingers find the gaps between his, draw his palm down to settle over her baby bump where she loves it most. Like a silent reminder of their relationship, their love, and the unlikely life it created.

Head falling back against the cradle of his shoulder once more, she swallows back a laugh at herself, the sappy, romantic person that almost dying and finding Rick has turned her into.

"We can sit if you're tired, or go back downstairs," he promises.

But she shakes her head, squeezing his hands gently. "No, just…stay for a while."

"Okay."

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for looking this over for me.**


	3. Chapter 3

_**December 3rd**_

* * *

She loves to see him writing, waking to the taps of his fingers against the keyboard, the steady sound a comforting drawl that drags her back to sleep like a quiet lullaby. Loves the look on his face when she eventually drags herself out of bed, changes into the lamest excuse of an outfit she can swipe from the top of her dresser drawers, and finds herself standing, frozen, in his office.

His face is contorted with concentration, tongue poking out from between his lips, whole body tilted forward as though he's being sucked into the story. The same way she feels when she curls up with one of his books, lets herself fade from the stresses of real life to sink into the tale his tells so beautifully.

Hand groping at the space behind her, she finds the chair in the corner of his office, tries to drop into the seat with graceful silence that won't draw his attention from the task at hand. Longing for her past ability to draw her legs up below her, curl herself into a ball and just _watch_ unfurls in her chest, but the swell of her baby bump forces her to settle for sitting with hands resting on her stomach.

He types away even then, seemingly unaware of her presence, his oblivion making gratitude warm her chest. A simple reminder of what hint of normalcy they'd achieved as two people recovering from heart transplants, coping with the lingering effects of their illnesses, and falling in love. Before she'd gotten pregnant and her health—however medically stable—had symptoms reappearing and her husband doting over her.

But she likes the calm. As much as she appreciates his constant attention, the love that drives him to selflessly do so much for her, she finds affection blooming within her as she watches him do what he loves. Do something for himself, for once.

The first time she'd watched him write was shortly after they'd first returned home from the hospital, when her presence in his home was still tentative, their love still budding under the guise of almost-normalcy. On a day when the scar on her chest had burned and ached, and she'd needed a distraction from the pain. She'd slipped into his office without thought, intent on snagging a book, only for her gaze to settle upon him at his desk, reclined with legs crossed over the wooden surface, laptop sitting on his thighs.

Her intentions of reading herself into the oblivion of sleep had disappeared, the draw of watching him making her settle in the very chair she sits in today. She had still drawn a book—one of his novels—from the shelf and flattened it across her lap, but her attention had been caught on him, the simplicity of cohabitating with the man she loved despite the warnings from the logical part of her mind.

It had been the first time he'd caught her with one of his books, the day she'd confessed into the silence of his office that she'd loved them long before she'd loved him, known him, watching the glee spread across his face.

The ease of sinking into calm enjoyment of each other's presence lingers, has only increased over the year and seven months since they'd first began this life together outside the hospital walls. But her enjoyment of watching him hasn't faded, remains something brilliant and bright that burns within her whenever she catches him doing what he loves most.

A smile curls at her lips as she watches, hands settling over her stomach, head rolling back against the cushion in an attempt to get more comfortable.

He doesn't look up, still seems oblivious to her presence, as he continues to write, that same expression of engaged concentration pinching his features as he stares at the screen. Until he hits what she assumes is the period key with a dramatic flourish of movement, eyes lifting to hers like a silence confession that he'd been aware she was there the whole time.

"Good morning?" he says, a question rather than a greeting as he sets his laptop aside, closes its lid and pushes himself from his chair.

She nods as he walks towards her. "So far so good," she answers. "Baby's hungry."

"Oh?" He pauses, leaning forward to settle his hands on her knees and press a kiss to her lips. "Then what are mommy and baby doing in here?"

She shrugs, a feeble attempt to be casual despite the blush rising on her cheeks, the knowledge behind his grin causing embarrassment that should be long gone after all they've been through. "Baby also likes watching you write," she tells him.

"Oh, the baby does?"

"Yup."

He chuckles, straightening and taking her hand in his to draw her from her chair. Without a word, he loops an arm around her waist, drawing her against his side as he leads her from the office, to the kitchen. She manages to heave herself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar as he releases her, returns a moment later with two advent calendars in hand.

Because of course he'd get one for himself, too.

Popping his own chocolate from its spot first, he sets it on his tongue, smiling wide and happy as the sweet starts to melt. She watches as he removes her chocolate from its square, holding it towards her in pinched fingers, slapping her hand away when she tries to reach for it.

It has her rolling her eyes, but opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue all the same. He pops the chocolate into her mouth with a smile.

"You're a dork. You know that, right?"

He answers by pressing his lips to hers.

He tastes of chocolate.

* * *

The haze of fatigue, the blur between dream and reality, lingers longer now, heart struggling to catch up to the rest of her body when she fades back into consciousness, mind paying the consequences. She remains curled up in bed for those long moments, as curled in on herself as the growing swell of her belly will allow, eyes still closed as she waits for the fog to clear, for her world to regain balance on its axis, a unique sense of normalcy.

When it does, she's left with no reminders of her body's struggles beyond the chill, a constant spread across her skin no layers of fabric or gust of warm air through the apartment could fix.

She pushes herself from the bed slowly, ignoring the aches of limited use in her knees as she does so. A hand smooths over her belly where the baby's kicks are just now breaking into her consciousness, drawing a smile to her face. Melting the cold of poor circulation as it draws her attention, wraps affection around her heart.

Her fingers linger there until she pushes herself to stand, counting the presses of her baby's extremities to her skin until the movement of her standing has him stilling within. A laugh falling from her lips, she caresses her bump one last time before letting her hands fall to her side, fisting the fabric of her sleeves in a feeble attempt to ward off the phantom draft in the room.

She follows her usual path, stepping between the bookcases separating his office from the bedroom just like she did that morning. His chair is empty now, laptop sitting closed atop his desk. Slow steps draw her towards it, hand reaching out to skim the surface of his computer, coast along the armrest of his chair.

Plans of finding her husband, allowing him to entertain her for the hours to come, crumble as she settles herself in the seat he usually occupies, flattens her palms against the expanse of wood before her.

The office she still considered to be his now teetered on the edge of _theirs_ , a center for his writing and her work when she had to complete it from home. An easy transition induced by her desire to return to work in the early stages of their recovery, when scars still pulled and physical therapy remained frequent and risks were still high. He'd welcomed her into his space without hesitation, ensuring she was comfortable before disappearing to let her do her work as though they'd always cohabitated.

The memory comes, fleeting, as a reminder of the ease that had come with their relationship, the simplicity of loving someone when you'd already faced the possibility of losing them. Or losing yourself before you'd had the chance the be with them.

Now, the walls of shelves are dotted with memories of his life, of hers, of their time together over the past nineteen months. Knick knacks he's gathered over the years, photographs of his life before she'd entered it. Figurines and souvenirs of her life and pictures of her family, happy before her mother had died. Pictures of them in the hospital, identification bracelets framed like those of newborns, their wedding picture, one of his arms wrapped around her the day they'd announced her pregnancy.

It's one of her favorite pictures of them, the memory of the fear that had clutched at them both still so vivid, intensifying the importance of that captured second of glee.

He steps into the room when she's still staring at it, a smile drawing at the corners of her mouth, mirroring that staring back at her in the image. Matched by his own when he spots her, draws her attention with the quiet thuds of his footsteps, has her looking up as he leans against the edge of one of the bookshelves.

"You're up," he says, his voice soft. "How are you feeling?"

The constant question, everlasting in its importance, haunting her since the day they'd first moved in together, a lingering effect of the way they met, the constant fear for each other's health. Some days she wishes it would be silenced, that they could forget the fact that they'd almost died, and go on with their lives as though nothing happened. Those are usually the days when symptoms are enough to remind her of their physical difficulties without words of concern playing on loop in her life.

Today, the lack of warmth is the primary reminder of her illness, fatigue is a fading cloud in her mind, and it makes her smile.

"Okay," she answers. "I think the nap restored some energy, for once."

He draws towards her at that, small steps until he's standing on the opposite side of the desk, leaning over the surface to press a kiss to her mouth. "Oh, good," he breathes. "Because I thought we could start your daily Christmas cheer now."

Her brows furrow, amusement splitting across her face. "My daily Christmas cheer?"

"Does it need a different name?" He sighs. "I guess it's still a work in progress."

She hums her agreement, smudging her lips to his cheek in a stupid attempt at comforting his feigned disappointment. "You're better at titles than that, babe," he teased.

He shrugged. "The content is always the easier part."

"So you already have today planned?"

His response comes first as a squeak of indignation, exaggerated insult that she would assume he wasn't prepared, before he's reaching for her hand, drawing to her feet, towards the makeshift door. He leads her with slow steps, hand clutched in hers when she drags to a halt, staring at the boxes piled up within his living room, the bowls laid out on the coffee table.

"Decorating?" she asks.

"And popcorn garlands," he adds. "You can't forget the popcorn garlands, Beckett."

She turns to him at that, eyes narrowed in his direction, suspicions melted by the warmth of his grin. "Do you usually make popcorn garlands?"

"Uh, yes?"

Her glare cuts sharper.

"Well, no," he admits.

"So why can't we forget them this year?"

His gaze flicks to her stomach at that, the stretch of fabric over her baby bump, and falls further to socked feet they both know should be elevated to diminish the risk of swelling.

"I wanted you to have something to do, since you're on bed rest," he explains, even though her mind has already spun to catch up to his motives, love blooming in her chest at her husband's considerate nature. " _Plus_ , you get to boss me around and tell me exactly what to do," he adds. "You'll love it."

And that has her rolling her eyes, even as she mirrors his smile and follows his lead to the nest of throw pillows he's made for her on the couch.

* * *

The decor is sparse this year, a garland wrapped around the banister, lights hanging over the breakfast bar, trinkets filling the few gaps in the bookshelves, laid out on countertops and tables. The space for the tree remains empty after he'd promised they'd decorate it as Christmas Day draws closer, occupied only by a nutcracker that sits nearby at the foot of the stairs.

Regret wells in her chest at the sight, the familiar pressure she tries to swallow back only to make it worse. Induced by reminders of all that she's changed, all she's diminished since he'd welcomed her into his home without a moment's hesitation, with promises that she would be taken care of here, promises he's kept far too well.

Accommodating her and the ghosts of her past no matter what it entailed.

She's seen pictures of his past Christmases, had been faced with the gravity of what she was asking of him last year when Alexis had handed her an album of memories, the day after she'd explained the pain that has long come with the holiday season. Images of trees almost too tall and walls hidden by endless decor, some classy and some a testimony to his inner child, the daughter he'd shown a happy home to.

Alexis had insisted her intention wasn't to make Kate feel bad, explaining with stammering sentences that she'd simply wanted to show Kate how joyous Christmas could be. It had done nothing to quell the now familiar flood of guilt through her system. Last year, it had only faded when she'd seen his face on Christmas morning, tentative hope flickering in his gaze along with glee she'd only ever seen in children, love shining bright when she'd climbed out of bed and joined his family in the living room.

It had healed some of her wounds, she realizes now. Finally soothed the agonizing burn of memories of the Christmas decorations she'd put away to never see again as Rick and his family had showed her how happy she could be.

Had love bubbling within her, falling as laughter from her lips and spilling into the moments they'd shared as the sun had risen and spilled daylight into the room, warmed them along with their morning hot chocolate.

"Rick?" she calls, propping an elbow on the back of the couch so she can turn to look at him.

He's standing on a stepstool in the kitchen, trying to arrange the lights as perfectly as can be, an attempt at prolonging the decorating process after he'd deemed the amount of decorations satisfactory for their home, together. His hand remains hovering in thin air when he turns towards her, concern creasing his features.

"Yeah?"

She smiles, hoping it will lift some of his worry. "There's still a lot of full boxes over here," she says, motioning with a clumsy flick of her wrist to the pile lingering in their living room. "Are you not going to use any of those?"

His eyes go wide, lips parting around an explanation that must die before he says a word as he clamps his mouth shut. Recognition flares across his features, knowledge a bright gleam in his gaze, silently easing the knot of nerves in her gut at the realization that he understands without her needing to explain.

His steps are slow as he lowers himself from the step stool, the hand that hadn't been adjusting the lights lingering on the metal handle until he's stepping too far to reach it. He grips at the back of the couch instead, drawing himself towards her until he's staring down at her, a small smile already curling at the corners of his mouth.

"You think we should?" he asks.

She shrugs, feigning indifference despite the seeming importance of this moment, the realization that this is yet another day drawing her further from the pain of her past and deeper into the joy of love with Rick, with their family.

A hand settles on her belly, and she watches his gaze flick to the spot where her palm so often lands. A habit developed earlier in her pregnancy, when the baby first started kicking, as she'd used the flutter of movement as easy reassurance that her body continued to keep their son alive and well, nestled within her.

"I do," she answers, the hand not on her baby bump rising to curl at his jaw, trace the line of stubble at his cheek. "You love Christmas, you should get to be enthusiastic about it."

"But–"

"And Rick?" she continues. "Last year, with you, it taught me that I could love Christmas again, too."

The smile blooms across his face, wide, unbidden, warmed with love only to be tamped when he leans down to press his lips to hers, his fingers splaying over hers on her belly.

"You're extraordinary," he mumbles as he pulls away.

She's already shaking her head, breathing a quiet protest into the inch of space between them, lips brushing against his as she speaks. "No, you are."

He laughs, the juvenile simplicity of her response drawing the same from her.

But it's true. Despite everything they've been through, all the difficulties they've faced, the possibility for more imminent as their son continues to grow, he still believes in magic.

And he's teaching her to do the same.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for looking over this chapter.**


	4. Chapter 4

_**December 4th**_

* * *

The smile that blooms across her face as she steps into the living room comes as a surprise, a show of happiness she didn't imagine could be prompted by a spread of Christmas decorations. But lights glow despite the bright sunlight spilling through the windows as the afternoon drags on, garlands of gleaming gold glint around the room. A beautiful hint of joy sprinkled into the decor, a combination of his belongings and her instructions melding into a show of holiday delight.

It's heartwarming in the best way, draws happy memories made somber by loss, fantasies of Christmases to come, to be spent with their baby boy.

Her hand skims over her belly. "Your daddy is going to make Christmas so special for you," she whispers into the silence, to the growing life within. "And I'm going to—"

She's cut off by Rick thundering down the stairs, steps heavy and drowning out the soft words falling from her lips. He offers a smile, combing his fingers through messy hair, smoothing out the wrinkles in his t-shirt. He steps onto the main floor more quietly, coming to stop at her side, lean forward to press a kiss to her lips.

"I thought I heard you," he says.

She hums in response, looking away to motion to the stairs. "What were you doing up there?"

"Oh, just assembling some of the furniture," he says. "Did I wake you?"

A quiet laugh falls from her lips, her head falling to rest against his shoulder. "No, babe," she promises, swallowing back comments on the difficulty he has drawing her from sleep when it's time for her medication, or when she sleeps too late into the afternoon. "Baby decided we'd had enough sleep, I guess."

His smile widens against the crown of her head, arm banding around her waist. "Good," he says, leading her towards the kitchen. "I cut up some fruit to go with the Eggos the _baby_ loves so much, and then, if you have the energy, we can begin your daily dose of Christmas spirit."

She shoots him a glare at that, even as amusement falls from her lips.

His response is an exaggerated wince, his hand pressing harder against the base of her spine as he helps her lift onto one of the kitchen stools. "Not any better?"

"Nope."

"Fine," he huffs. "But I _will_ think of something better."

She wants to lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek, but the swell of her baby bump forbids it, so she settles for a pat to his chest instead, a smile she knows communicates her love. "I have no doubt."

He leans forward, offers the kiss she couldn't give him before slipping away to make the breakfast the baby has been craving for weeks. After retrieving the plate of sliced fruit from the fridge and popping the Eggos into the toaster, he turns back towards the cupboards, draws ingredients from their depths and sets them in a row before her.

The simplicity of silence draws a smile to her face, stupid giddiness still bubbling in her chest after all this time together, the year of living together and seven months of marriage and still the ease of their relationship amazes her. Reminds her of how easy he is to love, how easy this life is to share, how easy it's always been.

It's the sound of the toaster popping that draws her from her thoughts, silence broken by the jerk of springs and Rick's voice as he announces that her breakfast is ready. She looks down at where everything he's drawn from the cupboards is sitting on the counter in front of her. Flour, baking powder, baking soda, spices, molasses, all telling, all making a smile curl at her lips.

"Babe?" she asks.

He hums his response.

"What is my, uh, daily dose of Christmas spirit today?"

With a glance over his shoulder, he lets her see the spread of joy across his face. "We're making a gingerbread house," he says, before sliding the plate of Eggos so it sits in front of her. "Now eat up. We have to preserve your energy for baking."

* * *

She fulfills the role she imagines a child usually would, measuring the ingredients and dumping them into the bowl, laughing as her husband makes a show of leveling every cup of flour with the back of a butter knife. He does the mixing, making a show of exaggerated movements until flour is splashing over the edges in puffs of powder, staining the stubble on his jaw white.

His intention is so obviously to make her laugh, as indicated by the brightness in his eyes every time amusement spills from her lips, the way his gaze follows her, searching, every time he does something he hopes will cause another bubble of laughter from her chest.

She almost wishes she was faking it for his benefit, that her husband didn't bring out a side of her she hadn't even known existed until he walked into her life—well, until she was wheeled into his. But he lives with such enjoyment of the little things, giving her snapshot moments where she can forget the pain that weighs on her heart and slip into almost juvenile glee with him.

Her mother was a lot like him, a woman burdened by the truths she faced at work who could be so impossibly happy when she was with her family. Warm hearted and infinitely satisfied with the life she'd been given, her mother had loved the holidays, embraced the time to celebrate more than anyone Kate had ever met.

Until she met Rick.

Only he has the ability to make her feel like a child again, return her to days when her mom would let her mix, laugh with her when rushed motions caused a cloud of flour to fill the air, make a mess across the counter. Apologies would tumble from her lips, past the laughter of amusement, and her mother would swipe at her cheeks, leaving streaks in the white powder there, and promise that they could clean up the mess.

The memory flashes, a split second remembrance that she finds isn't met with the crushing weight of grief.

Rick is rolling out the dough out on the counter when she shakes herself from the thought, turning to catch the small smile that's spread across his face, the gleam of love in his eyes. It has a flush blooming across her cheeks, has her dipping her head to hide it from him, staring at his arms as he continues to roll the dough instead.

"You look happy," he says, the words quiet.

She feels herself grinning, unable to stop it. A hand falls from the counter to rest on her baby bump, eyes flicking back up to catch his. "I am," she admits.

"So the daily dose of Christmas delight isn't too overbearing?"

A hum reverberates in her chest as she shakes her head, smoothes her hand along the swell of her baby bump. "No," she confirms, pauses, eyes falling to where he's aligning the templates over the sheet of gingerbread dough. "Rick?"

"Yeah?"

She hesitates, waiting as he hands over the knife to slice the dough, offer her another role in this gingerbread baking process. She takes it from him slowly, sets it down in the space between her and the dough rather that going straight to cutting, intent on speaking instead, voicing the desire she hasn't allowed herself to have since the first Christmas after her mother was taken from her.

"Can we do more baking this year?" she asks, forcing a quirk of her lip as she continues. "I want to get some of my mom's old recipes, and we can make them together?"

Warm affection spreads across his face without a moment's hesitation, bright in the beauty of his smile, the glow in his eyes. His hands lift from the countertop, palms coated in a layer of flour, as he reaches for her, frames her face, fingers splayed across her cheeks. He leans down, kisses her nose first before pressing his lips to hers, soft and sweet, a spill of love into her mouth that has her grinning as soon as he pulls away.

He's one of few people who could fathom the importance of this, comprehend her question as an effort to make Christmastime better, for herself, for him, for the baby they'll have come next year. And the impact of that knowledge is felt in the tenderness of his touch, laced through his words when he speaks.

"Are you sure?"

She hums, nodding her head, forehead kissing his.

* * *

He hands her the piping bag first, followed by the last bowl of decorative candy, peppermints in swirls of red and white that are too enticing to not pop one into her mouth, hum her approval at the sweetness on her tongue. Matching his smile when it spreads across his face as she holds the piping bag up, poised and ready to assemble the house of cookies they've begun to make.

They work together, him holding the pieces in place as she glues them there with dollops of icing, until the house stands, stable and simple, walls and roof of golden brown longing for the decor candy will soon offer.

He angles the house in front of her the moment it's assembled, slipping away to draw one of the stools from beside her, drag it over to the opposite side of the counter so they can remain face to face. It's only when he crosses his arms over the countertop, leaning forward and watching her rather than making a move to decorate the small house of sweets, that she realizes there's only one piping bag, perched in her hand.

"You're not going to decorate with me?" she asks.

His shrug is slight, smile unfaltering. "When she was young, Alexis didn't really appreciate my decorating technique, it was too unorganized for her taste, but she loved decorating herself," he explains. "I fell into the habit of watching her decorate them. It made me happy just to see her so happy, you know?"

She does, nods her head to tell him so, swallows back the words explaining that he was the first to teach her to love, blossom within her with nothing but a show of his affection, his happiness. The first person she's ever loved so much, beyond what she used to believe was possible.

"So, if you want to decorate it in your own, organized fashion, then I'm happy to just watch you," he adds.

Her smile is small, hand shaking as she makes a show of slathering a thick layer of white icing across one side of the roof, glue for candy yet to be placed there. He watches her movements, gaze flicking back up to hers when she reaches to the side, grabs a handful of sprinkles and lets them fall onto the gingerbread house.

"And if I want you to help me?" she asks.

"Then I'll help you."

Silence falls after that, nothing but the sound of the piping bag as she works, the icing as they put it to use, the candy that swirls on her tongue and crunches between his teeth. Until the roof is covered in a rainbowed array of sweets, a design unclear, a mixture of his work and hers that looks terribly juvenile, but she likes all the same.

It's only when they're starting with the second side of the roof, still working in tandem, that she speaks again.

"You used to make gingerbread houses with Alexis?"

He hums. "Oh, yeah," he answers. "When she was really young, I used to get the store bought kits, because she didn't really care either way. Her eyes would light up when she saw it, and she'd climb onto her chair and just stare at me until I sat down with her and let her start decorating. She would get mad at me when I stole candy before it was done, and then we'd share what was left once she'd deemed her decor satisfactory."

Her laugh comes as a huff of amusement, a joyous sound born from the images now flashing in her mind. A young version of Alexis, the responsible one, the organized one, trying to follow a set design as she decorated. A younger version of Rick, sneaking peppermints and candy canes when his daughter wasn't looking, eyes gleaming with the same love she sees directed at his daughter today.

"Where she got her organization skills and responsible nature, I still don't know," he adds. "Anyway, one year when she was, I want to say seven, I dropped the kit and all the cookies shattered and she was inconsolable, and I knew I had to do _something_ , so I went through every cookbook I had and found a recipe, just so happened to _somehow_ have the ingredients and made the gingerbread as she watched her favorite TV show."

She smiles at that, the image so clear, so _him_ , to be so determined to maintain the tradition he'd shared with his daughter, to make Alexis happy with something as simple as a gingerbread house.

"You should have seen her face when she saw the cookies and candy set out on the table, Kate," he says. "It's still one of my favorite memories of her."

His smile is wide, impossibly so, a show of affection that has warmth blooming within her, joy making her forget, again, the stresses of her pregnancy as her hand falls to rest on her baby bump.

"You're a good father," she blurts, catching his smile when his gaze falls to where her hand is sitting, affection bright in his eyes as he stares. "That's why Alexis is so organized and responsible."

He looks up at that, hand stilling in midair, gumdrop pinched between his fingers. "You think so?"

"I know so."

And to quell the flood of emotion evoked by his reaction, to ignore the images flashing in her mind, she turns the gingerbread house around to see what he'd done on the back as she'd made slow work of decorating the front, met with an image that draws a smile to her face, has him looking down at her with expectation shining in his eyes.

"You're a sap," she mumbles, gaze flicking back to the pair of candy canes forming a heart on the back of their gingerbread house.

He shrugs, the motion a blur in her peripheral. "Takes one to know one, Kate," he says.

She's powerless to deny it.

* * *

The middle of the night is a foreign sight now, with the stress of pregnancy drawing her to sleep too early and keeping her there for long hours. But the kicking within her stomach draws her awake tonight, pressure on her bladder and churning hunger in her stomach making her stumble out of bed to spend the sudden burst of energy soothing the needs of her body.

She retrieves a gingerbread cookie from the plate at the center of the table as she drops onto one of the dining room chairs, turning it so she can look out the window at the opposite side of the room.

Invisible starlight stares back at her, the glow of a city still wide awake despite the sinking of the sun, the darkness of the sky. An endless expanse of buildings, of livelihood, behind the walls that limit the silence of their apartment, the quiet serenity of their home as nighttime ticks by.

It's broken only by the sound of footsteps, drawing her attention from the world stretching to the limits of her gaze, to the man wiping sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand. She pops the final piece of her cookie into her mouth, offering a smile when his gaze catches hers, his brow creasing in worry.

"You okay?" he asks, words husky, grated with sleep.

She hums. "Yeah," she answers. "Your son was just kicking up a storm, woke me up."

" _My_ son, huh?"

A smile spreads across her face slowly, as she reaches out to take his hand in hers, presses it to the swell of her baby bump where the baby's movements haven't ceased. "He's your son when he's kicking this much."

The upturn of his lips is sleepy, warm with affection as he drops to his knees at her side, presses a kiss to the side of her belly. His breath is hot through the fabric of her shirt when he speaks to their son, just loud enough to hear. "You know, I do want you to take after your extraordinary mother and all, little dude," he says, "but maybe refrain from midnight kickboxing. Your mommy needs sleep so she can keep helping you grow, okay?"

Her laugh is quiet when it tumbles from her lips, fingers tightening around his. "Rick?"

He looks up at her, pressing the jut of his chin to her belly as he hums for her to continue.

"We'll make gingerbread houses with him one day, right? And let him do all the decorating if that's what he wants because just watching him be happy will be enough?"

She feels his smile before she sees it, pressed to her skin before he's kissing her baby bump once, twice, three times, right next to their joined hands. "Of course we will," he promises, "every year."

"Okay," she breathes in response. "Good."

He lingers there for a moment, kneeling on the dining room floor. Her hand not holding his falls to rest on his head, comb her fingers through his hair as her gaze drifts back to the city outside, as the baby continues kicking within her.

It's when her eyes begin to fall closed, the rhythmic movements of her hand lulling her back to calm, to relaxation and threatening to draw her to sleep that he pulls away. Hands flattening against the edge of her chair as he pushes himself to stand, he offers a smile at her fatigue, holds a hand out to her once he's steady on his feet.

"Come on," he breathes, "let's go back to bed."

She wraps her fingers around his, allowing him to help her to her feet, draw her into his embrace the moment she's standing. His lips press to the side of her head.

"I'll tell our little guy a story, try to make him stop kicking."

A grin spreads across her face only to be buried against his shoulder, the promise of falling asleep to the steady timber of his voice, lilted with affection for their little boy drawing her forward to return to bed, sink back into sleep.

* * *

 **As always, immense thanks goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	5. Chapter 5

_**December 5th**_

* * *

The room is swirling with steam, loosening the tension in her joints, easing the aches in her back, and the headache at her temple as she lets herself sink into the heat of water beating down across her back. The creak of the door opening draws her attention from the soothing effects of her shower to the room that lies beyond the foggy glass wall.

She knows it's him, the anticipation of his joining her already twisting in her gut when she turns towards the shower door. Her hand presses to the glass, rubs circles against it to clear the steam blocking her view, allow herself a sight of her husband as he pulls his t-shirt over his head, shucks his jeans, kicks off his socks.

He looks up after a moment, grinning when he catches her staring, but before she can look away, hope he doesn't notice the blush that warms her cheeks, he's stepping towards her, drawing the door open and stepping in behind her.

His arms wrap around her in an instant, and he turns them slightly so the steady stream of water hits them both, cascades in pearls down her sides, over his face as he dips his head to press a kiss to her neck. She reaches back, wraps a hand at his nape, holds him close as a hum of satisfaction slips from her chest.

"You're sweaty," she mumbles, grinning when his lips curl into a smile against her shoulder.

"I finished assembling the furniture while you were asleep," he whispers, punctuating the words with a kiss to the side of her neck, the coast of his hand over the bare curve of her baby bump. "Our little guy has a bedroom waiting for him, just needs to be decorated."

"I wanna see it."

He presses a hum to her skin, arms banding tight at her middle, holding her to him. His lips press another kiss to her neck, tracing the column of it down to her collarbone, tongue laving over the sensitive skin there before he speaks. "Shower first."

She breathes her agreement only for it to get lost in the steady patter of water against tile, twisting in his arms to face him, the swell of her bump wedged between them. He's grinning at her, leans down to smudge his joy to her lips, peppers kisses across her cheek, her jaw, to where her pulse is thundering in her throat.

His hand skims along her back, tracing the arc of her spine as she loops her arms around his neck, clutches at the back of his head, fingers knotted in his hair. She pulls him from her neck, even as he continues to smudge clumsy kisses to her skin, so she can press her lips to his instead, feel the rumble his groan against her lips, spill her affection into his mouth.

Her other hand flattens against his chest, fingers tracing the scar marring the skin over his sternum, making gratitude well within, tumble from her lips.

"Missed this," she chokes, as his hands grip at her hips, draw her tighter to him, his muffled groan making heat pool in her stomach.

It had been the easiest transition, that into physical intimacy. A desire, a _need_ soothed only by _this_ , by him and the press of his body to hers, his lips against her skin, hands tracing the curves of her frame. The stuttered rise and fall of his chest as he pants, groans that reverberate in her chest after they rumble from his, touch that lights them both afire despite the limitations of their bodies, the–

"Shit," she hisses, pushing him away with the hand flattened against his chest. "I can't. Not—I'm on bed rest."

The strangled sound that escapes him is more disappointed than needy this time, his hands squeezing her hips in a feeble attempt at comfort that only has the coil of desire tightening within her. Only has her hyper-aware of his needs, those which aren't denied by the doctor-opposed restrictions to her life.

She steps back into his arms, returning her hand to where it had curled at his nape as she leans forward to press a kiss to his chest, to his scar, lets her gaze flick up to catch the darkness of his.

"But I _can_ give you today's dose of… _cheer_."

He smiles at that, his eyes falling closed as her hand drifts along his side, curls at his hip, her lips pressing to the underside of his jaw.

She pulls away with a grin. "But this kind of cheer won't be Christmassy."

* * *

"Wait. Wait!"

Her steps come to a halt, gaze shifting from the door, her destination, to her husband who rushes ahead of her, a reassuring smile on his face when he flattens his back against the wall by the nursery door. He draws the door closed next to him, smile quirking wider when she furrows her brow, crosses her arms over her chest.

"So it's a surprise," he clarifies.

She hitches a brow upwards, even as her lips curl into a grin. "It would have been a surprise anyway."

"Yes but now it's _more_ surprise-y?" It comes out as a question, punctuated with a wince that has her laughing, stepping closer to smoothe her hand over his chest.

"And you're a writer, right?" she teases.

He glares at that, reaching forward to pinch her side, draw a giggle from her chest. His other hand comes up to hover over her eyes, cover them the moment they fall closed, his palm so close she can feel her lashes flutter against it. Objections have died in her chest, been silenced by the smile on his face, the desire to see what lies beyond their little boy's bedroom door.

She hears the click of the door opening, the flattening of his hand against the wood as his lips press to the shell of her ear. "Ready?" he breathes. "Three." A hand settles on her hip, urges her forward. "Two." The light switch is flicked on at her side. "One."

His hand falls from her over eyes just as they pop open, burning at the sudden brightness, flicking around the room, tracing the lines of the walls, the furniture, to take it all in.

Sunlight paints the room in squares, gleaming of the acrylic of white furniture. The crib sits in the corner of the room by the door, opposite the window, an armoire pressed against the wall across from where she stands. The rocking chair sits comfortably in another corner of the room, sheer white drapes fluttering to the floor behind it, behind the nearby changing table.

The walls are painted a soft shade of gray, accents of red bright in the window coverings, the rug, the bedding, and though decor is still lacking, she can picture it in place, details to make the room that will be their son's feel more like home. Toys to be placed on shelves, letters spelling out his name on the wall, blankets and stuffed animals to make it cozier.

But there's—

"Is it okay?" asks Rick, squeezing her hips, drawing her deeper into the room with him.

She follows his steps, a smile spreading across her face despite the well of regret in her chest when she realizes he's taking her to the rocking chair, reminding her of the rules of her bed rest. He lifts the pillow, hugging it to his chest with one arm as he motions for her to sit, offering a comforting smile when she drops into the chair with a huff.

It's just as comfortable as she remembers, the cushioning at her spine easing the knots there, and despite her disdain for her limitations, she finds it allowing her to imagine days spent here with her baby, cradling him to her chest as he sleeps.

"It's perfect," she breathes, gaze flicking up to him, the affectionate smile spread across his face. "I love it." Her hands flatten over her baby bump, pulling the fabric of her shirt tight over the swell of it. "He'll be so at home here, babe."

"You think so?"

Her smile widens, hand lifts to curl at the fabric of his shirt, draw him down so she can press a kiss to his lips, mumbled her reassurance against his cheek. "I know so," she promises, kissing him again before turning, pressing her temple to his as she glances at the opposite end of the room. "Just one question: why is there a Christmas tree in his room?"

"Oh, you noticed that, huh?" he teased, smudging a clumsy kiss to her cheek before straightening. "I thought we could decorate it, keep it in here for him."

"For him?" she breathes.

She feels her arms tighten around her baby bump, the action unintentional, a stupid attempt to protect her son from a threat that doesn't exist, from the implication of Rick's words.

"He won't be _here_ for Christmas," she adds, voice cracking around the words.

Rick's eyes go wide at that, and he rushes to lean back down, one hand framing her cheek, the other settling over hers on the swell of her belly. He kisses the top of her head, her temple, her cheek, hand pressing harder against her baby bump, a comforting pressure against her skin, against the evidence of their baby.

"No, I know he won't," he agrees. "Of course he won't. He's still going to be growing in there." The smile he offers is hesitant, apologetic, enough to have tension easing in his chest. "That's not what I meant."

Her nod is slow, met with a thick swallow. "But you want to decorate a Christmas tree?" she asks. "For him?"

He shrugs. "For him, for the idea of him being here soon- _ish_ ," he says. "Just so we can add a little Christmas spirit to every aspect of our lives right now, including our journey to baby."

She nods again, lips parting around a response that doesn't come, words that fail to exist beyond the spiraling world of her mind, emotion driven rattle of her intelligence.

His hand skims along her belly in the silence, fingers curling around hers, squeezes in quiet reassurance. "We'll be spending more time up here in the coming weeks, as we keep getting ready for his arrival," he continues. "Decorating and folding clothes, just making sure everything is perfect for our little guy. I just wanted something festive in here, too."

Her gaze flicks back to the tree, landing at last on the tangle of lights behind it, the gleam of what she imagines is a box of ornaments, silver flash of a garland rolled up in a ball and almost hidden from view.

"You know, one day we're going to tell him stories about Christmases before we had him," he continues, "and I'm going to tell him about how you, his extraordinary mother, spent months on bed rest making sure he was as healthy as possible, how you made sure everything was perfect for him. How protective you were of him before he was even born."

He squeezes her hand again, draws her attention back to him, leaning down to kiss her when she does. Probably at the wideness of her eyes, the lingering silence as she scrambles for something suitable to say. Something that will make him feel as love as he makes her feel. Make him see how much she appreciates him despite the moments where panic clutches at her heart and worst case scenarios flash behind her eyes.

"I just wanted to give him a little Christmas magic, even if he's not here to see it."

Because he's amazing, beyond what she could ever have imagined, as a husband, as a father, his eyes gleaming with love as he stares at her, as his thumb caresses the swell of life within her.

Their baby, who's lucky enough to have a father who wants to give him magic before he's even entered a world where it only truly exists in the minds of those who see such good, those like Castle.

She wants to give him that magic, too.

"Okay," she breathes. "Let's decorate his Christmas tree."

* * *

She slips back into the nursery after dinner, sneaking a quick glance at where Rich is typing in his office before making her way upstairs, a hand on her belly as she promises the baby they're going back to see his room. Trying to be quiet as she walks, intent on not making her husband aware of her movement, she makes her way to the door, opens it for herself this time.

With night falling earlier as winter spreads over the city, sunlight no longer streams through the windows, but the faint glow of a city alight with life even as the evening ticks by, fades to darkness. The walls are painted in rainbows instead, alight with the colors of Christmas that gleam off the garlands, paint the room in small dots of joyous brightness.

Magical. Just like Rick wanted.

She steps deeper into the room, failing to close the door behind her, slowly making her way towards the rocking chair where she can continue to follow the rules of her bed rest. Until her wandering gaze catches on something unfamiliar, metallic and mirrored, reflection the Christmas lights as much as the garland. A flash of silver, the loop of a red bow, and her brows furrow at the unfamiliar sight, attention shifting, steps bringing her towards the tree instead.

It's only when the small box is cradled in her palms, her fingernail picking at the tag on which his messy handwriting has scribbled her name, that the silence is broken.

"I was waiting for you to come back up," he says, and she turns to find him leaning against the doorframe, a smile gracing his lips, gaze shifting between her faee and the gift in her hands. "Took you longer than I thought."

She ignores the words, looking back down at where ink has bled around the letters of her name. "I thought one present before Christmas was enough," she mumbles. "What's this?"

He shrugs. "A gift. Consider it a celebration of the fact that you reached thirty-one weeks today," he tells her. "And that there's only 20 days left until Christmas."

"I didn't want more gifts," she mumbles, rolling her eyes only for her gaze to return to the box.

"Well, I wanted to get you more gifts," he counters.

His footsteps echo through the room as he steps closer, her mind hyper-aware of his gaze locked on her hands as he does so. She draws slowly at the ribbon, watching it unravel and fall between her fingers, sink to the floor, tickling her bare toes. Careful motions, flicks of her wrist, have her pulling away the paper to reveal the black suede of a jewelry box.

"Rick," she breathes, turning to catch his smile, as his hand lands on her hips, head dipping to press a kiss to her shoulder.

"Open it," he tells her.

She does, flipping the lid to reveal a pendant within. A gleaming black oval with an X of gold cutting across it, a band wrapped around it. A gasp catches in her chest, falls, cracked, from her lips as tears well in her eyes, induced by hormones, induced by love.

But he's reaching over her shoulder before she can murmur her thanks, tell him how much she loves it. His fingers curl around the pendant, a press of his thumb causing to pop open, two gleaming, golden ovals staring back at her, frames surrounding two pictures in the locket.

One is of her mother, a smile spread across her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes, mouth open as though she's laughing and Kate can almost hear the sound echoing in the silence of her son's nursery, feels it wrap around her heart, warmth and affection and grief and longing stealing her breath.

The other is grainy, printed in black and white, a profile she recognizes even as the rational portion of her mind reminds her that most ultrasound pictures look almost the exact same. An image she stared at for long minutes, crying in her doctor's office as Dr. Fields had promised her their son was healthy despite her elevating blood pressure. That she's clutched to her chest countless times in a feeble attempt to ease the nerves that come with a high risk pregnancy.

" _Rick_ ," she breathes again, breaking this time, fingers tracing the frames of gold around each picture, head falling back against his shoulder even as she continues to stare. "You… This is is amazing."

He presses his smile to her head, kisses her temple, dusts his lips to the shell of her ear. "I asked your dad for a picture of your mom," he explains. "I wanted you to have her close."

She does, constantly, but her appreciation of the gesture is clogging her throat with words of thanks. For the months he's spent accepting the eternal effects of her grief, offering support when needed, a shoulder to cry on when days are tough. A listening ear from the day she'd first laid in a hospital bed, cried as she'd told him about the mother she'd lost, the hole it had left in her heart, the physical damage searching for her killer had caused.

"I wanted _him_ to have her close," he adds, thumb swiping across the ultrasound picture. "And you to know that she's still there for him, and that he'll know how wonderful his grandmother was."

She chokes on a breath, a sob caught in her chest as she sets the pendant down on the dresser before her, twists in his arms so her fingers can knot in his hair, her lips pressing a hard, fast kiss to his.

"Thank you," she mumbles.

His arms tighten around her, hold her closer until her face is pressed to his chest, fallen tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt. "Anything for you," he promises. "To remind you of how extraordinary you are, how extraordinary our family is."

It draws a smile to her face, one she buries in his shirt, arms looping around his middle to hold him against her, baby bump wedged between them.

She wants to tell him that _he_ makes it extraordinary, makes _her_ extraordinary, but the words stay trapped, others escaping in their place. Just as true, hopefully able to communicate the flood of emotion lapping at her heart.

"I love you."

* * *

 **As always, immense thanks goes to Lindsey for looking over this chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

_**December 6th**_

* * *

He's sitting at his computer when she heaves herself out of bed, his frame visible through the gaps in the bookshelves, reclined in his desk chair with his laptop resting on his thighs. She can see the smile spread across his face, the dig of his teeth into his lip as he stares at the screen, but as her mind catches up to the world, she notes the lack of clicking keys echoing through the room.

Which means he's not writing.

Confusion morphing into curiosity, she forces her body from the bed, ignoring the tight knots in her back, the aches in her joints, the fatigue still drawing at her mind. The baby is kicking, and he must have rolled overnight because his feet are now jabbing against her ribs, painful, making it harder to breathe. She smoothes her hand over her belly in a feeble attempt to calm him, hisses her disapproval at his actions as though he could possibly understand.

It's the sound that draws Rick's attention to her, has him looking up from the bright screen of his laptop to look at her instead. His smile falters only when his brow creases in concern at the splay of her hand over her ribs, where the baby is still kicking away, only to be returned when she mouths that she's okay, smoothing her palm over her belly in hope that he'll understand the cause of her discomfort.

He must, because a grin spreads wide across his face, gaze dropping to her belly like it does when she flattens his palm against her skin, allows him to feel the movements of their son, even as apologies shine in his eyes.

Not a word is exchanged before she slips into the bathroom, and when she steps back out, he's returned his attention to his laptop, hand resting on the touchpad, the steady scrolling motion further piquing her curiosity. She finds herself walking over to stand at his side, hand smoothing over his shoulder, drawing his gaze back to her.

"So, the baby flipped?" he asks.

It has a grin spreading across her face, giddy joy at their understanding bubbling within her. "Something like that," she mumbles. "He's enjoying my ribs as a kickboxing target right now."

Rick glances back at her stomach, lifts one hand to caress the exposed skin where her shirt has ridden up over her bump. "Well, tell him to stop that," he says, "or Daddy will not be very happy with him."

A chuckle tumbles from her lips. "Oh, so threatening, babe."

He smiles up at her, tugging on her shirt until she leans down, presses a quick good morning kiss to his mouth. Her head falls to rest against his until the ache her spine has her straightening again, has him adjusting in his seat, feet falling from the desk and laptop taking their place. His hand drifts along the base of her spine, curling at her waist so he can draw her towards him, bump her hip against his chair until he's pulling her down to him.

"Sit," he breathes.

She skims her hand across his shoulders, threads her fingers through the hair at her nape. "Oh? You gonna tell me what you're doing?"

"Of course not," he huffs, teasing. "Just buying time for a cover story."

Her response is an eye roll, tamping the urge to stick her tongue out at him. But it's enough to have her dropping onto his lap, settling against him, head falling against his chest as he bands an arm around her middle, rubs circles against the top of her belly in what she knows is an attempt to calm the movements of their restless baby boy. She rests her hand over his, turns to look at the black of his computer screen.

"So, what are you up to?" she asks, reaching over to press her finger to the touchpad, make the screen flash bright again with— "Christmas trees?"

He hums, muffles the sound against the top of her head, kissing her hair as though to ease the sudden tension laced in her shoulders. Lift the weight of realization that has settled on her chest, heavy with regret, with guilt far too familiar.

"Why are you looking at Christmas trees?" she breathes.

His arms tighten around her, even as he pulls away, catches her worried gaze with his content, accepting one. "You know why," he says. "It's Christmas. We need a tree."

"But you never get a fake tree," she argues. "You shouldn't get one this year."

He responds with a shrug, a reassuring squeeze of his hand at her shoulder. "This year's different," he mutters, shrugging, still so simply accepting of the changes she's brought with her, much like he was okay when she'd diminished his Christmas decor last year, sombered the season with her distaste, her grief. "If you can't come to the Christmas tree lot with me, then we'll get a fake tree."

"Rick, we're _not_ getting a fake tree."

Her hand flattens against his chest, the leverage allowing her to sit up straighter, lean back far enough that she can make eye contact. Struggling with her baby bump in the away, she manages to twist herself so she's facing him, his hands holding her steady with gentle pressure at the base of her spine as her thighs frame his, hands loop around his neck.

She dips her head when she catches the worry gleaming in his eyes, pressing her forehead to his collarbone, hiding her frown against the fabric of his shirt.

"You love having real trees," she mutters. "It's part of the season for you. It's _tradition_." Her chest shakes with an unsteady breath, her remorse flooding into the words she muffles against his chest. "I'm _not_ going to take that from you, too."

"Kate–"

"No," she interrupts, pulling away only to watch his resolve crumble at the gleam of tears in her eyes, to wipe them away to save him the added pain of watching her cry.

He's done enough. He always does more than enough, gives her everything she needs and she _can't_ –

"I've already taken enough from you," she chokes. "And if I'm allowed to grocery shop, I'm allowed to go tree shopping, so you are _not_ giving up this tree for me."

And she knows it's not his desire for a real tree that wins out, knows he's only doing it to keep her from arguing, from stressing herself out, but her chest still loosens, worries unfurling when he nods, agrees.

"Okay."

* * *

He usually goes to a tree farm outside the city, a little upstate where snow remains white and trees aren't wedged into the confines of a busy city. Last year, when she'd agreed to go with him and Alexis despite the stinging wounds produced by reminders of the day she lost her mother, his face had lit up and he'd rambled about how beautiful it was as though she'd never left New York in her life, and she'd let him because she'd already taken too much from him to steal that joy, too.

This year, though, for the sake of her health, and the baby's, they stay in the city. He'd found a lot nearby, one promising a wide selection, a beautiful experience under bright city lights, and delivery, and although her baby is still practicing his kickboxing moves, he's so excited about picking out a tree that she pushes her aches aside and bundles up.

Her coat is heavy, feels thicker when paired with the sweater she wears beneath it, drowns her in woolen fabric, pulled tight around the swell of her baby bump. He makes careful work of wrapping a scarf around her neck, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of her nose before covering it to shield it from the cold, as she pulls her beanie onto her head, tugs gloves onto her hands.

She hates that he doesn't bother with a hat, the city still not cold enough to sting at the shells of his ears the way it coasts painful chills across her entire body.

The park, doubling as the lot for the holiday season, is just a few blocks away, so they walk, slowly, his arm around her shoulders, a steady support, a warmth that brings a content smile to her face. He squeezes her shoulder when they cross the street to the park, a bounce to his step telling her that getting the real tree, even though they're not going to a farm, is the right thing to do.

He tries to convince her to buy every tree, the smile on his face betrayed only by the worry gleaming in his eyes, so evident and overpowering the glee that should be shining there. Her hand coasts along his back, the shake of her head pressed to his shoulder as she leads him deeper into the park, where trees stand taller, fuller, so much closer to what he would usually get for the loft.

Lights shine overhead, hung between lampposts, shimmering over the park only to be obscured by the fluorescent glow of a sleepless city, and her gaze traces them as they linger amongst a forest that seems endless just for a moment. As she lets him search for a vessel for Christmas magic that he deems suitable, lets herself enjoy the escape from the loft for a moment, the ability to be on her feet for just a little while.

Worry clutches within her, that she's failing her son by bending the rules, no matter the constant echo of the doctor's voice permitting her to walk around for short amounts of time in her head.

"How about this one?"

His voice is quiet, a whisper against her head as though he knew she was lost in her own thoughts, was being careful not to startle her. He squeezes her shoulder once more, motioning with a jerk of his head to the tree before them. He inspects the branches of the Douglas Fir, brows furrowed in concentration, before he speaks again.

"It'll be perfect for lights, but is it too much?"

She hides her smile behind her gloved fingers, and reaches up to pat the hand draped over her shoulders. "A little, babe," she tells him. "We wouldn't be able to get any ornaments on this thing."

His nod is slow, accepting, met with the shift of his body as he tugs her with him, deeper into the park. His gaze traces the rows of trees, hers following the crinkles of joy across his features, the upturn of his lips and brightness in his eyes, beautiful and happy.

A trace of what he's tried to offer her over the last few days, that she can only hope to return.

She turns, resting her head against his shoulder as she glances at the trees ahead of them. "What about that one?" she breathes, pointing ahead to a Noble Spruce she would guess to be seven feet tall, its branches full all the while leaving enough empty space for ornaments between them.

His response comes first as a grin that lights up his face, and then with him leaning forward to touch one of the branches like a child amazed by the size of the tree before him.

Her hand skims over her belly as she waits for his decision, mind conjuring images of their son doing the same, poking himself on the tree even as he deems it perfect for their living room, eyes alight with wonder at the beauty of nature, the grandeur of it all.

"I think it's perfect," says Rick. "You have a good eye for this."

She feels her smile bloom, shy and happy, hidden in the thick fabric of his coat when she presses her face against his chest. The cold bites at her cheeks, the roughness of his jacket scraping across sensitive skin, burning with the warmth it provides, but she doesn't want to pull away. Not when his arms band tightly around her, holding her to him, swaying them both.

"You must have learned from the best," he adds.

That has her swatting at his chest, her laughter muffled as it tumbles from her lips.

"By which I mean your mom, of course."

Laughter dies, severity falling as she pulls away from him, catches sight of his smile slight and tentative, loving and apologetic. But her heart is melting at the sincerity in his tone, at his recognition of her past and the people that shaped her despite their absence in moments such as these.

"Yeah?" she breathes.

He nods. "Yeah," he confirms, reaching over with the arm not draped over her shoulders to rest his palm on her baby bump. "And one day he'll learn from the best, too. By which I mean his mom, of course."

And she pushes herself onto her toes to respond with a kiss.

* * *

She waits on a park bench while he speaks to the lot employees, points out the tree they chose together, fills in paperwork, pays for it and for delivery. The wood has absorbed the cold, is freezing beneath her, but she sinks back against it anyway, relieving the ache in her feet after standing, abiding doctor's orders once again. She smoothes a hand over her belly to remind her of the latter.

Rick's walking back towards her, receipt stuffed into his pocket and smile still spread wide across his face when the first flakes fall.

They're miniscule, specks of white that melt before they reach the ground, just barely shimmer atop the lot's tallest trees, shining bright under the constant assault of artificial light. Gleaming in silver, sparkly white overhead, beautiful, drawing her attention from her husband, from her thoughts of her son, to the sky overhead, the blur of clouds letting snow drift over the city, the flecks that reach her, tangle in her lashes only to melt when she blinks..

She opens her mouth, allows some to fall onto her tongue, melt there, tasteless and cold and wonderful all at once, before looking back at Rick, catching him smiling at her.

"What?" she asks.

He shrugs. "You're beautiful."

Quick steps bring him to her side so he can drop onto the bench with her, his hand coasting along her thigh so he can tangle his fingers with hers, squeezing gently.

She returns his smile. "I love the snow," she breathes, gaze still flicking at their surrounding, drops of ice landing on her skin, melting as soon as they make contact.

Some has landed in his hair, spared from the effects of body heat where they linger on the ends of strands. Flecks of white that somehow make him even more beautiful, appear to be the embodiment of the very magic he believes in, tries to make her believe in, too.

Maybe he is just that.

She lifts her hand from her belly, skimming gloved fingers across his face instead, feeling the sharpness of his jaw, the rise of his cheekbone. Movements imprecise, rendered clumsy by the padded warmth of her gloves, she swipes her thumb across his nose, smudging his smile when her fingers coast over the corner of it, when she leans forward to press her lips to his.

This is Christmas magic, sitting in the freezing cold and barely feeling it, lost in the heat of love, the warmth of her husband at her side. The racing of her mind as it conjures images of days yet to come, years to pass by in a blur of split second moments and she wants to capture each one before it's even happened.

Teaching their little boy to pick a good tree, to catch snowflakes on his tongue and savor the split second where they're pure, before they're tainted by the world below. To spend the holiday season seeking joy, offering it to those he loves, to those he doesn't know. To believe in magic no matter how impossible it seems.

Like his father does, after having two organs cut from his chest and replaced, after almost watching her die, just barely managing to save her from the body that had been failing her.

To still see beauty in the little things, no matter how big the bad things may be, no matter which wounds may haunt him when he's older.

She presses her forehead to Rick's when she pulls away, smiling when his hand comes up to twist a strand of her hair, to pinch a snowflake and make it melt between his fingers. His own head still gleams white with flecks of ice that continue to fall around them. Perfect in their timing, in their portrayal of simple winter beauty.

"I'm glad we came out here," she whispers, eyes falling closed, flicking open again so her lashes tangle with his, their proximity rendering her words a breath against his lips to be punctuated with a kiss.

He mirrors her smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he does so, blue so impossibly bright as he stares back at her. "Me too."

The next kiss is slower, and when he pulls away, he turns so his back is pressed flat against the bench, the hand coasting along her shoulders encouraging her to do the same. She sinks against his side without a moment's hesitation, pressing as close as possible with thick layers of fabric separating them, only to feel his lips dusk a kiss to the crown of her head.

"Thank you," he breathes.

Her brows furrow, head pressing harder against his shoulder as she speaks. "For what?"

The expected response of _for insisting we get a real tree_ doesn't come, silence lingering between them until it forces her to turn to look at him, see the love spread so obviously across his face. And when he speaks, the words are warm, laced with affection, reverence that should be directed at him, not at her.

"For making this Christmas magical."

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help, especially for this chapter in which she wrote part of a scene for me.**


	7. Chapter 7

_**December 7th**_

* * *

The tree is standing in their living room when she drags herself out of bed the next morning, tall and full just as it was at the lot yesterday, the tips of branches wet with the melted remnants of last night's snowfall. Rick is standing in the living room, arms crossed over his chest, broom at his side, leaning against the back of the couch, a pile of pine needles at his feet.

He's smiling, satisfaction curling at his lips along with the joy that seems to never fade, beautiful in the late morning night coming through the windows, casting a shadow of the tree across the living room floor.

She walks over to him slowly, until she can drop rather clumsily onto the armrest of the couch, his attention shifting to her only then even though she's certain he'd been aware of her for longer. His hand skims across her shoulders, squeezing lightly when he draws her towards him, presses her against the cushions between them.

"Did the delivery wake you?" he asks.

The shake of her head has her pressing her cheek deeper into the cushions, words reminding him that very little can wake her nowadays dying in her chest. "No," she says instead. "The baby is still enjoying kicking me in the ribs."

"Oh, is he now?"

She hums, glancing up at him with a smile despite the lingering aches, the effects of a long night spent teetering on the edge between sleep and wakefulness as her son seemed to enjoy stealing her comfort. His hand drifts back along her shoulder as she does, fingers plucking at the baby hairs remaining free of her messy bun.

"Didn't we tell him to stop that?" he says.

"We did," she confirms, the memory flashing, a split second reminiscence of how he'd caressed her belly, pressed his lips to her ribs and kindly asked their son to relax, get some sleep and let her do the same. "Guess we have a little rebel on our hands."

"I guess he takes after you."

The squeak escapes her without her permission, met with a spill of laughter as she reaches up to swat at his chest with the back of her hand. " _Me_?" she asks. "If I remember correctly, _you_ are the one who got expelled from school for putting a _cow_ on the roof."

He raises his hands in mock innocence, even as his grin spreads wider, a flash of the light-heartedness she's missed since the threat to their son—to _her_ —first became a tangible reality, an unavoidable fact. "That cow prank was good," he says, as though it's some kind of defence. "Besides, _I'm_ not the one who ran off and got a tattoo when I was sixteen."

"Worth it, just to see the look on your face when you saw it for the first time," she counters. Her head falls against the couch, gaze drifting from his. "We're screwed, aren't we?"

"With his genetics?" says Rick. "Definitely."

He pauses, the silence dragging on as her hand finds her baby bump once again, gaze tracing the lines of the undecorated Christmas tree before her, the web of branches to be wrapped in lights, drawn with ornaments. Her fingers splay high on her belly, where she could feel the baby moving when she first woke up, where he's since stilled, seemingly happy to be calm as she goes about her life.

It's only when his hand curls tighter at her nape, squeezing softly, that she returns her gaze to her husband, catching the bright smile spread across his face.

"But it'll be worth it," he tells her.

She grins up at him, keeps smiling as he leans down to press a kiss to her lips. "I know," she breathes.

It already is.

* * *

The knock on the the door sounds when they're sitting on the couch together, her leaning back against the armrest, covered in a throw blanket, her feet on his lap as he massages warmth back into them. He smiles at the sound, squeezing her foot before untangling himself from her. Their guests wait at the door as he tucks her legs beneath the blanket, presses a kiss to her lips and promises he'll be right back.

She hates that she can't get up to greet their guests with him, the hand settled on her stomach pressing harder against her skin to remind her of how worthwhile it is to obey doctor's orders.

It only takes a moment for Alexis to be escaping her father's welcoming hug and rushing into the living room, arms already spread open, expecting a hug Kate offers without hesitation. Alexis settles in the spot Rick just vacated, folding her hands in her lap as she smiles.

"How are you and baby…?"

"He still doesn't have a name," she responds.

Alexis rolls her eyes in response. "You guys should get on that," she mumbles. "He's going to come out thinking his name is _the baby_ Castle."

She shrugs, smoothing hand over her stomach once again, forcing her smile to remain unwavering, refusing to speak the truth to anyone, much less her husband's daughter on a day that's supposed to be happy.

Unwilling to admit that the true reason their son still doesn't have a name is that she refuses to so much as speak of giving him one. That despite her knowledge that plenty of people begin their attempt to name their child from the moment they know their gender, she's silenced every conversation where it's risked coming up. Fearful, despite herself, that giving a name to their little boy will give some stupid permission to the universe to deliver him now, when he's still too small and ill-prepared for the demands of staying alive.

"We just haven't found anything we agree on," she tells Alexis instead. "He'll get named eventually."

Alexis remains silent, smiling until Kate turns her head when she hears her dad's voice. She shifts so she can stand, however briefly, so she can greet him with a hug as well. "Thanks for coming, Dad."

Jim grins and squeezes her shoulders. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. You sit, can I get you anything? Tea? Cocoa?"

"No, I'm okay, thanks though." She does heed his advice, though, after Martha gives her a quick hug, and she rolls her eyes when her husband rests his hands on her shoulders from behind the couch, leaning down to drop a kiss to the top of her head. "I hate feeling helpless," she murmurs when she lifts her face to look at him.

He accepts her wordless invitation and meets her lips with his in a soft kiss. "You're not helpless," he insists with one more press of his lips to hers. "You're keeping up your strength so our child can grow."

She watches as Rick and her dad start to untangle the lights, and after a few moments Martha and Alexis sandwich her on the couch, each with hot cocoa in hand. "Do they need any help?" she asks Martha in a low voice when she sees the men start to get frustrated, chuckles when her mother-in-law just shakes her head.

"If only they'd accept," Martha chuckles, and Alexis hums her agreement from the other end of the couch. "Several years ago, Alexis dear you were very young so you may not remember. But Richard got so frustrated with not being able to untangle the lights that he went out and bought a brand new set. When he was gone, I untangled the ones that we had." She smiles at the memory. "He put both sets on the tree. It was a very bright year."

It takes almost an hour, but the men finally get the lights on the tree, and while Alexis turns off the living room lights, Rick settles onto the couch next to Kate and drapes his arm over her shoulders. He leans towards her, squeezing her arm as he dusts a kiss to her temple, allows his lips to linger at her ear.

"Feeling okay?" he murmurs.

She smiles, leaning deeper into him. "Yeah, I'm good." She turns her head, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

She grins when her dad plugs in the lights, illuminating the room with hundreds of tiny white flecks coming from the branches.

It's perfect.

She slips away after a few moments, ignoring Martha and Alexis' insistence that she sit to make her way to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle and taking a moment to lean against the counter. It's when she's dipping her tea bag into the boiling water that footsteps echo behind her, and she expects to see Rick standing there with promises that he'll make her tea for her if she wants to sit down, but it's her dad standing by the breakfast bar.

There's an unfamiliar box cradled between his palms as though it holds something delicate, and her brows furrow at the sight.

"What's that?" she asks.

Jim rests his hand atop of the box, gazing at it with a look on his face that resembles melancholy. "Something I think that you should have," he says, opening the lid to pull out something, something that Kate recognizes as an ornament she'd made when she was a child.

He sets it on the counter, in the space between them. A piece of craft foam with branches sticking from the top like antlers, enough to bring a nostalgic smile to her face.

"This time of year hasn't been good for us since your mom died," he says, words a whisper weighted with sadness, grief that never goes away. "But starting last year, before last Christmas even, I've seen you change."

He pauses with that, lifting the box to rest it on the counter, slide it towards her with a shove of his hand. She peers into it, finds it filled with more ornaments. The ones that had hung on their tree when she was growing up. The ones she thought she'd seen for the last time when they'd put them away after losing her mom.

The one sitting atop the pile is enough to bring tears to her eyes, a candy cane frame encircling a picture of her and her mom, bundled in thick winter jackets and scarves, standing by a snowman they'd made at the cabin.

"Dad…"

"Christmas is happy again," he continues, as if he hadn't heard her. "You're happy again."

When his gaze lifts to hers, it's brimming with tears, a strangely unfamiliar sight after all they've been through. The last time she'd seen him cry had been the day he'd first visited her in the hospital after she'd called him and confessed that she'd been living there for weeks, had a heart transplant without telling him, and met someone she loved more than she thought possible. He wipes the tears from his eyes, the smile he offers shaking with sadness.

"You're starting a family," he says. "You found Rick, who loves you more than I could have ever wished for you, and now you're going to have a beautiful baby boy, and you're happy. This is exactly what your mother would have wanted for you, Katie."

She sets her mug on the counter, next to the box of ornaments, of Christmas memories, and steps towards him. Offering an equally sad smile as that which remains spread across his face.

"I'm not ready to decorate yet, but you are, and that's great," he continues. "Your mother would have wanted this for you. All of this. And she would have wanted you to have those."

It takes a split second before she's pressing herself into his arms, leaning forward over the swell of her stomach to wrap her arms around his neck, bury her face in his shoulder, press her tears to his collar like she would when she was a child. He bands his arms at her back, holding her to him until she can feel his smile bloom against the side of her head, feel his words, a breath over her shoulder, when he speaks.

"I'm so happy for you, Katie," he says. "And so is she, no matter where she may be."

She pulls away slowly, wiping tears from her eyes, her hand drifting over the counter until it closes around the foam reindeer ornament she'd made so many years ago.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "For these."

His smile spreads wide across his face. "Thank _you_ ," he returns. "For showing me that we can be happy again."

* * *

Their family stays for dinner, which they spend in the dim lighting of the dining room, illuminated by the glow of the Christmas tree. Talking about everything and nothing, about Alexis' experiences in university and Martha's acting endeavours and her father's law firm. And about her pregnancy, of course, the threats that have her on bed rest and the rules she must live according to, the nursery Rick had showed off to everyone and the planning yet to be done.

They leave when the sun has already faded from the winter night sky, offering hugs and well wishes at the door before turning to leave, the thud of their exit lingering for a moment.

Rick bands an arm around her waist as soon as the loft falls silent, ushering her without a word over to the couch, the pile of throw pillows and blankets that is so very welcoming with the exhaustion now rooted in her bones. There's an ache in her spine that's been lingering for hours, her feet sore despite their lack of use, and no matter her usual disdain for the limitations of bedrest, she sinks onto the sofa without argument.

He joins her, drawing her to him with an arm around her shoulders, thumb rubbing circles the tense muscle of her shoulder. She presses her face to his, a kiss to his clavicle as she nestles against him.

"What time is it?" she mumbles, pretending she doesn't already know it's far earlier than when she would normally go to bed. Hating the fatigue drawing her her body, at her mind, after a day without crashing for an afternoon nap.

"Doesn't matter," he answers. "Bed time if you're tired."

She groans, muffling it in the fabric of his shirt in a feeble attempt to hide her disappointment with her own body, its failure to handle carrying her son without constant, debilitating symptoms. Rick smoothes his hand across her shoulder in response, curling his fingers at her nape to massage away the knots there.

"But, if you're up for five more minutes of today, I do have one more surprise for you," he adds.

Her brows furrow as she pulls away, presses the hand resting on his chest harder against him as leverage for her weakened body to stay upright with. "A surprise?"

He shrugs. "Well, not really a surprise. But there are a few more ornaments."

Pushing her off him, he rises from the couch slowly, turning back to ensure her comfort against the cushions before darting from the room, disappearing into his office. He returns with a smile, once she's adjusted herself, lifted her feet onto the cushion next to her in a feeble attempt to warm them with improved circulation.

His hands are tucked behind his back, his eyes alight and drawing a smile to her face despite her pain, her exhaustion. Soothing it enough for her to reach for him, tug at his elbow in an attempt to make him reveal his surprise.

When he holds his hands in front of him, palms splayed with an ornament resting in each of them. The two ornaments he'd given her the day after she'd been put on bed rest, the stock images that had occupied the frames now photographs of their life, their family, one of their wedding day and the other of their unborn baby boy.

"You didn't hang them up earlier?" she breathes.

He shrugs. "I wanted you to do it and mother and Alexis weren't really letting you stand up much," he says. "I figured it could be fun to do them together, after everyone left."

Her responding nod is slow, and his smile fades like he expects her to refuse until she's holding a hand out to him in silent request that he help her to her feet. He does, holding both ornaments in one hand and her in the other until she's swaying against him, her baby bump pressed to his middle and lips smudging a clumsy kiss to his lips.

She's sluggish as he leads her to the Christmas tree, head never leaving its spot on his shoulder and eyelids drooping with the enticing draw of sleep, but he holds her close, presses a kiss to her head before placing the _Baby's First Christmas_ ornament in her hand.

It ends up on a random branch, her mind too hazy to think of where it should go, where it would look best with the other decorations that dot the tree, hang from its branches. But she feels his smile, warm and sweet and pressed to her temple when he kisses her. And he only shifts them slightly before placing the second ornament in her hand, holding the string open with her to place it upon its branch, too.

She blinks the image into focus, the picture of them staring at each other under the Hamptons' sunset on the day of their wedding, his palm flattened against her chest and hers against his, feeling the beats of hearts that saved their lives. Gave them their future together.

This future, with their unborn baby boy.

"I love you," she mumbles, words raspy with fatigue.

He chuckles against the crown of her head, squeezing her waist where his hand is situated. "I love you, too," he echoes. "But I think it's time to get you to bed."

She hums her agreement, and falls asleep as soon as her head settles comfortably on her pillow, her husband's chest pressed to her back and arms wrapped around the failing body that just might be satisfactory if it can still give her days like today.

* * *

 **As always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey, again in particular for this chapter which she helped me jump start by beginning a scene.**


	8. Chapter 8

_**December 8th**_

* * *

She wakes to his fingers trailing along the length of her arm, drifting momentarily to swipe strands of hair from her face, circle the shell of her ear and follow the line of her jaw, the column of her neck back to her side. His touch is soft, warm, enough to make his love obvious in the subtle way she's adored since the earliest stages of their relationship, when such actions were merely waking to him staring from the hospital bed opposite hers.

If she hadn't already been dragged into nine hours of sleep, she's sure her husband's gentle touch would drag her back into slumber, lull her mind to relaxation and have her body sinking deeper into the mattress beneath her.

Instead, she smiles, pressing back against his hand to alert him to her wakefulness, seemingly drawing him forward to press a kiss to the high of her cheek bone. His hand falls from her arms, resting instead on her belly, pressing against her skin in that way he knows can sometimes draw a reaction from their son, after likely having restrained for the sake of her sleep.

The baby kicks against his palm, drawing her smile wider and a laugh from Rick.

"Well at least I can get a good morning from my son," he teases, kissing her cheek again.

She hums. "He's probably been awake longer," she reminds him. "He likes stealing my energy to kickbox in there."

He chuckles, smoothing his hand along her stomach. "I'm sure he doesn't do it on purpose. Just trying to show off how he takes after Mommy," he tells her, and she can feel his gaze on the side of her head as the smile he'd surely desired blooms across her face. "Which means, since he wished me good morning, I think his mommy should, too."

Rolling her eyes at his insistence, she turns her head at last, allows him to press his lips to hers in a gentle good morning kiss that has the final swirls of fog in her mind dissipating. Her hand comes up to wrap around his nape, combing through the strands of his hair until her fingers curl at the shell of his ear, holding him close until he draws a moan from her chest, and she pulls away for air, to force herself to calm down.

The temptation to kiss him again is strong, to get lost in the press of his lips to hers until she has to slip from his embrace in order to abide by doctor's orders. Especially when his fingers coast along her face, his mouth smudging a kiss to her forehead before he sinks back into the spot behind her, curling his body around hers once again.

"Satisfactory good morning for you?" she asks.

He hums in response. "I've been waiting for that for an hour," he says. "Definitely worth the wait."

"Oh?"

She turns again, flattening a hand against his chest and pushing him away so he rolls onto his back, towards his side of the bed, allowing her the space to maneuver with her baby bump, roll onto her other side. Her hand falls to his chest, the other curled beneath her head as he reaches over to play with her hair.

"You were watching me sleep for an hour?"

He shrugs. "Something like that."

"Why?"

His fingers trace patterns on the side of her head, twirling her hair between them, probably into knots but she can't bring herself to care. Not when her own hand is drifting along his sternum, tracing the phantom image of the scar she knows lies beneath the fabric of his t-shirt, when he's staring at her like she hung the stars in the sky, lights New York City in the night time.

"Because you're beautiful," he says, so ernet, so honest that it has love burning hotter in her chest, has her pushing forward to press a kiss to his shoulder. "And because I like watching you sleep. I always have. You know that."

The responding hum passes through her throat, knowledge that it should probably be a creepy confession flitting through her mind only to be banished by understanding. Her empathy for the earliest reason for his watching her sleep, when her heart was too weak to keep her conscious, and he'd watch the rise and fall of her chest to ensure she was still alive, despite the monitors constantly displaying her vital signs.

She's done the same, especially in the earliest stages of their recovery, in the occasion that she would stay awake while he slept. She'd rest a hand on his chest to feel his breath enter and leave his new lungs, to feel the patter of his heart against her palm as reassurance that his new one worked after he'd given her his own.

"We're okay, Rick," she mumbles, fingers fisting at the fabric of his shirt and drawing her closer to him, until her bump is pressed against his side, lips pressing to his jaw. "You don't have to hover."

"I know," he huffs in response. "I wasn't. Just spending time with my wife before she leaves me for the day."

And with that, the tension dissipates. Gone is her worry that he's driving himself crazy looking out for her, watching her sleep out of fear for her life he would never admit to her face, fading to a lingering ghost of thought she knows won't disappear completely as amusement takes its place, draws a laugh from her throat.

"I'm going upstairs," she says. "With your mother and daughter, to a room you have complete access to."

He sighs, an exaggerated, dramatic breath that has his chest rising beneath her palm. "Yes, but you ladies have complete control over what happens in the nursery from here on out," he reminds her. "Which means I am stuck all the way down here, away from you, until it's finished."

"Aw," she coos. "Don't worry, babe. You can get some writing done while we decorate, and I won't be gone for long."

"Oh, I know," he returns. "You can never resist me for long."

She shakes her head, dragging her teeth against his lobe before whispering against the shell of his ear. "Not that," she says. "But because our son is a soccer player in training and your voice is the only way to calm him down."

He groans, drowns the sound in a laugh as he turns his head and presses his lips to hers.

* * *

Martha and Alexis arrive shortly after lunch, bearing cronuts from the bakery near her mother-in-law's apartment that the baby has loved for as long as he's existed. A flurry of red hair and hugs and shopping bags full of stuff for the nursery that they keep a secret from Rick even as he tries to peek into them. In a rush of chatter than Kate can barely keep up with, he bombards his mother with greetings and questions until Martha and Alexis are escorting her upstairs with promises that she'll love what they brought.

The bags, it turns out, are mostly full of baby clothes and blankets, a handful of toys for the remaining bare shelf, stuffed animals to make it seem a little more cozy.

They have her sitting in the rocking chair as soon as they enter the nursery, Martha with a hand on her shoulder and Alexis with a pointed glare when she protests. So she sinks into the cushioned seat, head falling against the back, arm smoothing over the fluff throw blanket draped over the armrest.

She watches, gives advice and orders as Martha and Alexis do all of the actual work, arranging toys on the shelves, stuffed animals in the crib, decorations upon the wall.

There's the bright red, fake alarm clock Martha had bought, topped with two bells, sitting on one of the shelves. The toy cars Alexis had gotten her baby brother, arranged perfectly just below the clock. Pictures of elephants and giraffes and lions in grayscale and framed in white that are hung over the changing table in the opposite corner.

A pile of baby clothes ends up on her lap, unfolded, a mess of fabric sewed into adorable tiny outfits she holds up before her and admires, knowing from the style which of her family members bought it for her unborn baby boy. The more debonair outfits were bought by Martha, brown suede overalls and navy pants and button downs she's sure her son will not appreciate wearing. And the more cartoony onesies from Alexis, with animals and puns printed upon them and the one that reads _I love my big sister_ that draws a knowing laugh from her chest.

The clothing is laid up in the closet right before they take a break, on shelves, in neat piles that she's sure will no longer look so perfect after the baby arrives. Some are hung on hangers, miniature and hovering high above the shelves, adorable, like another form of decor that has her heart melting, longing to hold her son in her arms and see how cute he'll be.

And then Alexis is dropping to sit on the rug, legs folding beneath her. Martha draws the ottoman from the corner and sits on that, folding her hands over crossed knees.

"So, Katherine, how have you really been feeling?" she asks.

Her smile curls slowly at the corners of her lips, hands, now free, settling upon the swell of her baby bump. "Tired," she admits. "But grateful." She smoothes a hand along her belly, echoes Rick's movements from earlier to try and elicit a kick from the son that is calm, for once, within her. "That he's okay," she elaborates, "and that I have Rick through this."

"He's certainly a good person to have on your side," says Martha.

"But he's not being overbearing, is he?" adds Alexis.

She shakes her head in response. "Not really," she answers. "Maybe a little with this Christmas thing, but I like it. It keeps me from worrying too much."

Alexis smiles, nodding her head at the information, Martha humming in quiet response.

"I just wish I could return the favor," adds Kate.

"Of keeping him from worrying?" asks Alexis.

Martha reaches over, curls a hand at Kate's knee. "I don't think you could, darling," she says. "Richard is well aware of the risks of your pregnancy. I'm sure there's little way to distract him from that."

But the words have Kate shaking her hand, reaching down to rest a hand over Martha's, the other staying pressed to the round of stomach. "Not that," she says. "I want to make Christmas as special for him as he's made it for me, but I can't find anything to give him that's good enough."

"I'm sure just having you here, knowing that you're having a baby is more than enough for my dad, Kate," says Alexis.

"But it's not enough for me," she counters.

More words well, threatening to spill past her lips in a blur of romantic, sappy questioning that she forces herself to swallow back for the sake of the other women in the room, for the sake of the image she's trying to portray. Words asking what could possibly be good enough to give to the man who gave her everything? Her child. Her love. Her life.

"I got him a pen and books last year," she reminds Martha and Alexis instead. "And I know he said that my willingness to participate in Christmas was enough, but I want to be better this year." She pauses, eyes falling, drifting to the Christmas tree that sits upon their little boy's dresser. "I want to give him…magic. Like he's given me."

It's sappy, spoken in shaky syllables, admissions of the romantic musings of a metaphorical heart he stole and shaped into something that loves more intensely than she ever thought possible. It has Martha squeezing her knee and Alexis cooing a quiet _aw_ into the silence that falls over the room.

"Why don't you do just that?" asks Alexis afterwards, drawing Kate's gaze to where she's still sitting on the world. "He's been planning little activities every day, right? To make this Christmas as good for you as it can possible be given…everything?"

Kate responds with a nod, slow and thoughtful as she tries to catch up to Alexis' train of thought.

"So you could make Christmas all about him," she explains. "You know, plan activities you know will make him smile, as reciprocation for all that he's done for you. Things you can do together, or all of us as family or something."

"Oh," she breathes, an anticlimactic response that in no way mirrors the sudden race of her mind, the blur of thoughts as they come and go, images of possibilities, a flicker of ideas. "That's a really good idea."

"You think so?" asks Alexis. "I mean, you obviously couldn't do all the setup yourself, because of the bed rest, but we could help, if you wanted. Gram and I wouldn't mind."

Kate's gaze darts between her stepdaughter and her mother-in-law at that, smile growing tentative. "You wouldn't?" she asks. "I know you guys might have plans for Christmas."

"Oh, Katherine, our plans are with our family," says Martha, squeezing her knee once again. "That includes you."

She nods, slow, shy. "You're sure?"

Alexis' responding bob of her head is far more certain, happy. "Of course," she says. "All you need to do is come up with ideas, and we'll do whatever we can to help."

"Okay," says Kate. "Okay, then I might have an idea."

She waits only for quiet hums telling her to continue before launching into her explanation, a retelling of the second day of Rick's Christmas surprises, and of what he'd said when it had snowed while they were at the Christmas tree lot. Of how they could perhaps join those elements on the rooftop, hoping it would snow on Christmas Day, maybe with a scavenger hunt bringing him there, a series of small gifts mirroring those he's already given her.

A thank you for making her holiday season magic by trying to do the same for him.

* * *

Martha and Alexis leave while Rick is cooking dinner, despite his insistence that he's made enough to account for the four of them. Alexis with a reminder that she has plans with Paige to study for their upcoming psychology final. Martha with a statement that she has _evening_ plans, in a tone that has Rick instantly telling her he has no interest in details, letting her slip into the hallway.

After hugging the two goodbye, Kate finds herself lifting onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, across from where Castle stands, stirring alfredo sauce in a pot on the stove. He turns to her, offers a smile over his shoulder.

"You hungry? We can eat now if you want."

She hums, shrugs one shoulder. "A little," she answers. "But I want to show you something first."

It only take him a moment to switch off the stove, strain the pasta, leaving it in the sink and switching the pot of alfredo sauce to a cool element. For him to be helping her to her feet, allowing her to lead him up the stairs to the closed door to their son's nursery.

"Do I have to close my eyes?" he asks.

"No," she huffs.

"What if I want to?"

That has her rolling her eyes, one hand nudging at his back to push him forward, the other landing on the doorknob. "Then close your eyes, babe," she tells him, just as she pushes the door open.

His smile spreads, wide, happy, instant, eyes scanning the decorations now hung on the walls, sitting on the shelves, the clothing in the closet, wide with glee, with amazement, something that looks suspiciously like awe.

"It looks great," he breathes. "All that's missing is his name over the crib and—"

Words die in the silence when his gaze lifts to the ceiling, where next to the red blades of the ceiling fan is hung a single sprig of mistletoe, held to the ceiling with a single smudged piece of tape.

"Wow, Kate," he says. "He's not even born yet and you're already trying to make our son a lady's man."

She rolls her eyes again, stepping closer to rest a hand on her husband's hip, turn him towards her. Her other hand lands on his chest, drifts along the curve of his shoulder, along the muscle of his bicep. He reaches for her hips in return, pulling her as close as the swell of her baby bump will allow.

"It's not for him, silly," she mumbles.

"For my mother then?" he questions. "I knew leaving you with her for the day would be a bad idea."

Her response is a playful swat to his chest, a chuckle that bubbles from her throat without her permission. "Not for your mother either, babe," she tells him.

His arm bands tighter around her at that, locking at the base of her spine, hands massaging the knotted muscles there. The other drifts up along her side, skimming her skin until it can curl at her jaw, tilt her face upwards, towards his.

The kiss he presses to her mouth is slow, soft, laced with love and appreciation that she can only hope is poured into her own, breathed into his mouth when she parts her lips under his, swallows his quiet groan, drowns it with her responding moan. When he pulls away, slowly and with a pop of their lips, he presses his forehead to hers, lashes fluttering open and closed slowly until his gaze returns to lock on hers.

"Who is it for, then?" he asks, voice lilted and teasing despite his breathlessness, words affectionate and sweet and making her laugh once again.

"You," she breathes the unecessary response, tilting her head to kiss him again, capture his lips with hers in quick kisses until she's pulling away, stepping back a little farther.

The words that tumble from her lips next have his eyes brightening with recognition, with glee and appreciation all at once. Her heart swelling with love matching that so evidently spread across his features, communicated in his smile.

"It's our daily does of Christmas magic."

* * *

 **As always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey for all her help with this story.**


	9. Chapter 9

_**December 9th**_

* * *

The silence of the loft is oddly unfamiliar, with her husband closed away in his office and distance between them drowning the click of his fingers across the keys that she usually hears when he's writing. The TV is off, the kitchen empty spare for her, the baby who is oddly calm within, and the whir of the refrigerator, white noise that becomes the silence when she listens to it for too long.

She wonders if this is what Rick hears when she's asleep late into the morning, if he sits in a quiet loft trying not to wake her, amusing himself with the tangents of his overactive imagination. With the world he's created, painted in black letters across the stark white of computerized documents.

If her ever slips into bed with her not out of simple desire to have her by his side, or out of worry that the stresses of pregnancy will silence her heartbeat, but out of boredom, need for the silence to be broken, so desperate he settles for her breathing to fill it.

Her hand skims over her stomach at the thought, gaze drawn from the white of their kitchen, towards the bookshelves slicing the living room wall. The books and the angle block her view of him from here, only the memory of stepping through his office to get her breakfast telling that it's where he sits, occupied and silent, lost in his mind the way she can never do with her own.

She considers going to join him, settling into her chair in the room, curl up with a good book and replace the swirl of thoughts with the stories of fictional characters overcoming their struggles. Exchanging her view of an empty apartment for one of her husband, and the quiet for the click of keys she's adored since the first time she woke up to the sound.

But she knows he's enjoying writing, and the worry that her presence will ruin that for him blooms, changes her mind in an instant. Her hand presses harder against her baby bump with that, conviction to do something else that won't interrupt his writing settling as she turns to look at the stairs instead.

It's the mental image of the nearly completed nursery that draws her forward, has her hand curling around the banister, lifting her onto the first step. Towards the baby's room that only has a few other decorations to be added, a few other useful items that they hadn't had the chance to purchase before her blood pressure had risen and her doctor had limited her to the apartment. A few things she's certain Rick will get their son for Christmas even though he surely will not arrive by then.

She can see the room in the back of her mind before she pushes the door open, brain formulating the bright glow of their son's Christmas tree just as it comes into view, draws a smile to her face.

Laughter bubbles quietly from her chest with that, the realization that just two years ago this would have seemed to be a complete impossibility springing forward. That before she'd met Rick, she hadn't even wanted a relationship, much less a child. Had envisioned nothing more than chasing her mother's killer until the heart she'd known was failing—no matter her inability to admit it to herself at the time—gave out and ended the agony of running in circles for whatever eternity would be permitted to her.

Hand still resting on her belly, she dips her head to look at the swell of her bump, the evidence of her child.

"You know what you have in common with your daddy?" she asks him, feeling the slight bubble of movement beneath her skin that her heart pretends is a response. "You guys were both the best surprises of my life."

It only takes a moment of standing at the doorway, admiring the room, thinking of how completely she loves her husband, their son, for her feet to start to ache, protesting the pressure against them after nearly a week of barely any use. And the pain, however slight, is what draws her deeper into the room, has her stepping across the soft red rug to drop into the rocking chair where she'd sat yesterday.

Across the room from her sits the baby's dresser, already almost filled with clothing, the top decorated with a stuffed giraffe and strategically placed piles of books. So unlike that which his father is writing downstairs, but hopefully enough to fuel a love of the written word that will one day lead their child to appreciate literature as much as his parents do.

Rick will love to read to him, draw their little boy, wrapped in a blanket, a small arm wrapped around a stuffed animal, onto one thigh as he allows the pages to fall open against another. Point out the pictures and speak in funny voices sometimes, drawing laughter from their son until his mind is at ease, tears dried on his cheeks. Or read quietly into the darkness of the room as he rocks the baby to sleep, his smooth baritone lulling, calming, until their son falls asleep in his father's arms and Rick continues to hold him, unwilling to let him go just yet.

She can't—

"I can't wait to see your with him."

Her eyes pop open at the voice, to the sight of Rick leaning against the doorframe, illuminated by the sun and a rainbow of Christmas lights. A smile is across his face, hair a little mussed as though he'd run his fingers through it, love gleaming so impossibly bright in his eyes.

The smile already drawing at the corners of her mouth widens. "Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you."

"That is funny." He steps into the room slowly, eyes scanning the decor again, admiring just as he had last night. "You feeling okay?"

She hums. "Little tired, but otherwise I'm good," she tells him. "Can you do something for me, though?"

"Anything," he answers.

With a flick of her wrist, clumsy motion of her hand, she motions to the books sitting atop the dresser, eyes still locked on her husband as she watches him reach for one. He lifts it slowly, presses it to his chest with a knowing smile, already coming towards her to occupy the ottoman, drop to sit at her side.

She tugs the fabric of her shirt up, over her baby bump to reveal the stretch marks marring her skin, her belly button that pokes out now, to bare the evidence of their child where he tugs her flesh tight, grows within and makes his presence known.

Rick presses his hand to her baby bump in a moment, the other waving around in an attempt to make the book's pages fall open, his fulfillment to her request already in progress before she's even spoken it.

"Will you read him a story?"

* * *

He escorts her back downstairs with an arm around her shoulders, pressing kisses to her head as though that will do anything to quell the well of hormone-induced tears her eyes any more than his laughter at her repeated utterances of _shut up_ had. Until his voice is mumbling apologies against her ear, promises that he hadn't intended to make her cry, and she's letting him lead her into the living room where—

Things are laid out on the coffee table that weren't there when she first went upstairs.

The first object that draws her attention is a giant bag of plastic ornaments, bulbs in shades of red and white and silver, frosted glass and gleaming metallics. The next is a messy, tangled pile of fake pine, plastic needles poking flat from it. There are other bags of craft supplies, one of fake pine cones and one of holly. A few spools of ribbon, both cloth and plastic. Hot glue guns are plugged into an extension cord that usually doesn't stretch into the living room. There's one ring made up of entwined metal wires, and a second that's a loop of cylindrical foam.

Her brows furrow at the sight, steps halting, tears drying from her eyes as confusion replaces the tight knot of emotion that had occupied her chest.

"Rick?" she asks. "What's that?"

"That?" he responds, motioning to the living room with one hand, a knowing smile spread across his face even has he tries to feign innocence. "Oh, that's just your daily dose of Christmas magic."

"It is, huh?" she counters. "So what exactly is today's dose of Christmas magic."

He doesn't say a word at first, simply presses his hand harder to the base of her spine to nudge her forward, until she's standing between the litter of supplies and the welcoming cushions of the couch. His hands curl around hers, helping her slowly drop onto her seat, lift her feet up to curl beneath her in an attempt to keep them from going numb from her poor circulation.

She watches, silent, as he settles next to her, reaches forward to grab the loop of wire in one hand, the foam one in the other, and he holds them both between them.

"I thought we could make wreaths,'" he explains at last.

Her jaw falls open, affection welling within her chest despite lingering questions that swirl in her mind. She feels her lips curl upwards into a smile, try to form words that don't come because what do you say when your husband planned to make homemade wreaths in an attempt to brighten your holiday season?

But he must take her silence of uncertainty, because he rushes to continue. "These are the bases, and it seemed pretty easy so I figured even if you were tired, we could just chill out on the couch listening to Christmas carols and make wreaths. Only if you want to, of course."

She nods. "Of course I want to," she mumbles, pausing only to watch the spread of glee across his features. "So what are the two different bases for?"

"Oh, uh, well this one is for a more traditional wreath, with the pine and holly and all that," he says, jerking the hand clutching at the wire one. "And this one is for a more modern one, that you make by gluing small Christmas bulbs around it. I figured you could choose which style you want to make and I'd make the other."

Without hesitation, she reaches forward, tugs the wire base from his grasp to let it fall onto her lap. It spurs him into motion, has him dividing the supplies according to their respective wreaths, drawing one of the hot glue guns closer to her side of the couch, connecting his phone to the surround sound so the soft tunes of Christmas classics fills the room.

They work in silence after that, elbowing each other when they get too close. She loops the garland of fake pine needles around her wreath base, holding it in place with twists of wire until she's satisfied with the circle of green while he glues a first layer of various Christmas bulbs onto his base, hissing every time he sticks his finger in a spot of hot glue.

At some point, when she's trying to figure out if she wants the bow of thick red ribbon to be at the top or bottom of her wreath, he reaches over, hooks an ornament in her ponytail, laughing at her glare. But she leans forward to press her lips to his, catch him off guard when she sticks a sprig of holly behind his ear and clutches at his hands to keep him from patting it away.

Hot glue is surely leaking from the tips of their respective guns when her gaze locks with his, when he leans forward to kiss her once, twice, three times. Over and over again until he's drawing laughter from her chest, until fun has the emotion of her morning slipping away, has her remembering of moments, so very similar, from her childhood.

She pushes him away slowly, hands flattened against his chest as her face falls serious, and his features crease with concern. But she leans forward again, loops an arm around his neck and tugs him closer until she can let her forehead fall to his shoulder.

"You know how you wanted to know more about my mom?" she asks. "And what she was like over the holidays?"

His responding nod is slow, probably careful not to move her too much. But she pulls away anyway, catches the severity of his gaze with her own, forcing a quirk of her smile because the memories are _happy_. So filled with joy that it has longing burning strong within once again, grief growing more tangible at the thought of how much fun her mom would have trying to help Castle entertain her over the course of this Christmas.

"She was a lot like this," she explained. "She always tried to make sure I had as much fun as possible."

He nods again, his face laced alight with gratitude, expression still laced with uncertainty as to how to react and she's glad he doesn't say a word. That it allows her to read over, clutch at the loop of simple green she'd made and hold it to her chest, the smile on her face widening, growing sadder.

"She would go all out with decorations every single year, and wreaths were her favorite," she continues. "She had this giant one—it was _huge,_ Rick—and I used to love it. She has pictures of me when I was young sitting in the middle of it, and when I was a little older with it wrapped around my waist or hanging from my shoulder. And every year, she would hang it on our front door."

Her grip on the wreath tightens, and Rick reaches over to rest a hand over hers.

"I used to ask her why we put it where we couldn't see it, and she would say _so it can brighten someone's day when they walk by, Katie_ ," she adds. "She was a lot like you like that."

She flips her hand under his, clutches tightly at his fingers.

"Always trying to make the holidays magical for everyone else," she finishes. "Just like you're doing for me."

* * *

They wait until after dinner, when they're certain the glue has dried and the extra layers they've added are enough to hold the heavier decorations in place, to lift the completed wreaths from the spot they occupied on the coffee table. He'd long since cleaned up the mess they'd left behind, made makeshift hooks of remaining wire to hang leftover ornaments on the tree. But he'd left the quiet sounds of Christmas carols echoing through the loft as they'd eaten, and they still play as he leads her back into the living room after dinner is done.

He lifts his wreath first, shakes it a bit to ensure every small bulb is in place before handing it over to her. "Where should we put it?" he asks quietly.

The first idea that springs to mind is the front door, but he's squeezing her arm the moment her gaze shifts in that direction, drawing her with him towards where the bookshelves separate his office from the living room. His gaze catches her just for a moment in silent questioning before he's grabbing a thick book from one of the top shelves, a volume of Russian literature she'd brought with her when she'd moved in.

It's clumsy, but he manages to loop the thin fishing wire hanging device he'd made around the spine of the book, allowing the pages to fall closed and hold the wreath in place.

"Good?" he asks, and her response comes as a slow nod, a smile that blooms across her face.

When they return to get her wreath, he doesn't stop to ask where they should hang it, turning to her with a soft smile, holding the loop of fake pine and pinecones and holly berries between them, the words that tumble from his lips not a question, but a promise.

"For the front door," he says. "Like your mom used to do."

It's enough to have tears stinging behind her eyes, her response another nod because emotion seems to clog her throat, silence whatever mumbles of _please_ and _thank you_ and _I miss her_ and _I love you_ that could fall into the silence as broken syllables of pain and joy and affection and everything in between that has her heart racing for reasons that don't send panic shooting to her gut.

She drops to the couch to watch him hang it, and he holds the door open to show her before letting it fall closed.

Letting the wreath bring other people joy the way her mother had once intended with her own.

"Rick?" she calls.

He rushes back to her side, leaning over the back of the couch to catch her shaking hand in his, the fingers of his other hand coming up to wipe tears from beneath her eyes.

"Was that okay?" he breathes.

She nods, rushed and clumsy and laughing. "It was perfect," she promises. "I just– Can we make this a tradition? One of our own, for us and the baby, when he gets here?"

His breath is stutter, his steps bringing him to her this time, his weight dropping onto the cushion at her side. "Making homemade wreaths?"

"Yes," she says. "Just 'cause it reminds me of– I mean, my mom loved wreaths. And this was a lot of fun, and I think that one day the baby will like to make his own, too. And we can tell him about why we hang them on the front door. We'll hang the ones he makes, even though they'll be messy–"

"We'll love them anyway."

Her head bobs once more. "Exactly. Because he made them," she agrees. "It would be fun, right? Something new? Something for our family?"

His smile widens, hand drifting from its spot on her cheek to curl at her jaw instead, eyes flashing just for a moment before he's leaning forward, whispering his response so close his lips brush against hers.

"It's perfect."

And he seals the promise with the press of his lips to hers.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help with this chapter and story.**


	10. Chapter 10

_**December 10th**_

* * *

Leaving the loft is a treat now, has excitement welling within her despite the voices in the back of her head reminding her of all that could go wrong, all the bad news they could receive. It has a smile on her face from the moment she wakes up, curling at her cheeks even as fatigue draws at her mind, at her body, as her pulse thunders nervously in her throat.

Rick wakes her with presses of his lips to her head, drifting from her crown to her temple to the high arc of her cheekbone. Over and over again, gentle and playful until she's reaching back and knotting her fingers in his hair, drawing him towards her so she can catch his lips with hers. Breathe her strange comfort, her happiness, into his mouth even as her neck aches, her body protests her wakefulness.

"Excited to get out?" he acts, the words a puff of laughter against her cheek.

But she nods in response, doesn't even bother trying to hide it when she knows it's written across her face, alight in her eyes like it hasn't been for a week and half. Since the day she last stepped outside and stood on the roof of their building, wrapped in her husband's arms until he'd laid out the blanket on the cold cement surface, sat down and drawn her into her lap despite her protests that the pregnancy made her too heavy.

The hum slips back her lips instead of words, echoing even as he presses his lips to hers once again. A true response only comes when they part again. "Is it bad that I'm so excited to go to the doctor?"

He laughs again, just as quiet, just as benign. Happy and kind as he reaches over, spans a hand across her stomach, thumb tracing circles over the spot where their son's head is usually nestled, a solid weight against her skin. "Not bad," he promises. "You're not used to being holed up all the time. An escape is understandably appealing."

His hand still on her stomach, he pushes himself into a sitting position with the other one, leans down to press a kiss to her stomach, press his chuckle to her baby bump when their little boy stirs beneath his touch.

"Besides, don't forget the promise of Remy's milkshakes on the way home."

She moans at that, hand falling to land on his head once again, comb through the strands of his hair as he laughs once again. "Don't tease the baby like that, babe," she tells him. "You know how much he loves them."

"Yeah," breathes Rick. "How much _he_ loves them, because it's not as though you loved them _before_ you got pregnant."

"Not at all," she teases .

He presses one last kiss to her stomach before returning to her side. His hand curls at her neck, the other at her shoulder and he helps her sit up despite the aches in her bones, the longing that remains for the soft pressure of the mattress beneath her. She lets her head fall to his shoulder, smile pressed against the cotton of his t-shirt.

"You hungry?" he asks.

She hums, hiding her blush in the crook of his neck. "Baby's always hungry," she reminds him, grinning when she feels his jaw shift with his smile, able to picture the dramatic roll of his eyes at her attempts to pin everything on their unborn son. "He wants pancakes. His daddy's chocolate chip pancakes."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head at the request, grinning at he pulls away. His palm presses harder to her belly as he leans down, his cheek falling to rest against the swell of her stomach as he whispers. "I think your mom is trying to blame everything she doesn't want to admit on you," he tells their baby. "But don't worry. You're daddy knows that it's actually Mommy who wants strawberry milkshakes and chocolate chip pancakes."

Her hand swats at the back of his head, even as laughter tumbles from her chest, joyous and amused and further silencing the worried voices in the back of her head, the reminders of the threats these doctor's appointments pose to her choice to think she's healthy enough to support her son.

The insecurity that this is all her fault. That she's the one who went and got herself shot, which caused the scar tissue, which required the transplant and now has her body struggling to keep both her and the baby healthy.

Rick's hand is still a gentle pressure on her stomach when his words cut through her thoughts, shatter the returning threat of anxiety caught in her chest, clogging her throat.

"Do you want orange juice or milk with your pancakes?"

She smiles, soft and sweet, innocent with the flutter of her lashes as she leans forward, smudges her lips to his. "Baby wants milk," she tells him.

"Still blaming the baby, huh?"

Shrugging one shoulder, she kisses him again before allowing her head to return to its spot on his shoulder, her gaze to fall to the evidence of their child. "Not my fault you'll do anything for him."

His responding chuckle is soft, laced with undertone of severity that draw her gaze back to his, has her teeth digging into her lip to tamp the smile still blooming across her face.

"Like I won't do anything for you?" he says.

The bite of her lip fades, unnecessary in the face of the love written so obviously across his face. "Anything, huh?"

"Of course."

She hums again, knocking her forehead against his as she pretends to think, to not know what the aching parts of her body long for, what the heart that has missed her husband so impossibly much given his constant premise desires. "After breakfast, can you run me a bath?"

His nod is quick, without a second's hesitation just as she expected, enough to have her leaning forward to kiss him again, once, twice, three times.

"And you'll join me?" she asks.

He grins wide, happy. "Is that even a question?"

* * *

The white sterility of the hospital room has bile rising in her throat, memories haunting from the moment they step past sliding glass doors into an entryway of sleek tile and white walls and staircases sticking up and down in every direction. Her breath stutters from her chest, and Rick reaches between them, wraps his hand around hers.

His lips dust a quick kiss to the top of her head, whisper against the shell of her ear. "It'll be okay," he mumbles.

Her responding nod is slow, hesitant, tendrils of fear still laced within her chest, clutching at her heart as her husband leads her down all-too-familiar halls. White walls dotted with signs and arrows pointing people in every direction, towards every ward and specific doctors and it would be a maze if she hasn't long since known her way around sharp corners and constant motion.

Rick leads her to the elevator, the tug on her hand gentle because he knows she prefers taking the stairs. Protesting the weakness her body once held within the walls where all strength drained from her by doing what once seemed impossible. In her own little way that he'd always gone along with.

But with her on bed rest, she allows him to draw her past the open elevator doors, pulling her tight to his side to allow room for the orderly and patient in a wheelchair who join them on the lift. She sinks against him as his free hand lands on her belly, as he presses another kiss to her head, the affection she would normally refuse in public soothing some of the ache in her chest, the anxiety racing within.

Stepping onto the obstetrics word has her heart rate spiking again, nerves rattling her ribs with shaky breaths at the images of healthy women carrying healthy babies slathered across the walls. Women with wide smiles spread across their faces and hands splayed over their baby bumps, and hearts that probably aren't weak, blood pressures probably not on the rise, threatening their life and their baby's.

She stares for too long, swallowing against the churn of nausea in her stomach, the circle of fears in her mind, until Rick squeezes her hand, draws her attention to him instead,

"It'll be okay," he promises, smile curling at the corners of his lips.

His optimism is spread across his face, alight in his eyes and she wishes it was contagious, that she didn't have a mind that jumped to the bad possibilities rather than grasping to the good as his did. That she didn't see _something terrible has to happen eventually_ where he sees _look how much we've come through, the universe must be on our side._

They end up sitting side by side in chairs facing the doors to the rest of the hospital instead of walls lined with happy posters, his hand on her knee and her head on his shoulder. Fatigue draws at her after the movement of the day, as a reaction to the stress of not knowing what kind of news they'll receive, rooted in her gut, spiralling through her limbs.

"It'll be okay," he repeats, his hand tightening at her knee even as he continues to stare ahead, his gaze probably locked on the same frosted glass that catches hers.

Her hum is soft, more somber than agreeing. "I can't stop thinking about last time we were here."

"I know," he says.

It's with another soft squeeze of her knee that he pulls away, free hand pressing against her shoulder and forcing her to sit straighter, too. It falls to her baby bump afterwards, fingers skimming the swell of skin, pressing like a silent request for their son to move, reassure her with evidence of his life. The smile blooms slowly across Rick's face, hesitant but warm and loving and reassuring all the same.

"Don't think about last time," he tells her. "Think about all the times we've been in this hospital and got good news."

His lips press to the top of her head at that, to her cheek, gaze falling to her chest where they once sliced into her body and removed the most broken part of her, replaced it with the heart that keeps her alive today.

"The day we found out we were getting transplants," he says, "and every milestone after that. The first time we walked, our first kiss was in this very building, the day we decided to move in together too."

Her cheeks burn at the memories. Of the day they'd celebrated side by side, still weak and dying for a few hours longer, sitting in pre-op and holding hands for the first time. The day she'd been steady enough on her feet to walk over to his bed, sit down next to him as he was propped up on pillows, when her hand had landed on his jaw and he'd cradled the back of her head and her scar tugged only to be forgotten the moment his lips pressed to hers. The day he'd offered her a home where she could recover, live, _love_ like she'd never quite had before.

"And then there's the day we got to see him for the first time," he continues, hand pressing harder against the swell of her stomach. "We were both so scared, but then he showed up on that screen, happy and healthy and his heartbeat strong, _perfect._ Remember that?"

She could never forget it, the relief that had flooded her system at the site, their little peanut-shaped baby in grainy black and white on a screen, the flutter of his heart visible only to be heard echoing through the room moments earlier.

Stronger than hers or Rick's had been when they'd met.

She nods slowly, finds herself leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips in thanks when the sharp syllables of her name fill the waiting room. Her forehead falls against his, laughter spilling from her lips as she turns towards the door leading to the hall of exam rooms.

The nurse standing there is grinning, teasing, knowing them both well enough to know it will make them laugh when she jokingly calls Kate's name again.

It's that same nurse that weighs her, leads her into a smaller room where she sits down again, has a blood pressure cuff slapped around her arm as she's asked about how bed rest is going. As Rick is asked about whether or not any new books are coming since he killed off Derrick Storm.

As friendship leaks into doctor's visits like she never imagined possible until she spent months living in a hospital with doctors and nurses and Rick and his family as her sole companions.

The nurses asks her if she smokes, about her caffeine ingestion, possible diabetes as the cuff tightens around her bicep, and she answers automatically, the _no_ falling from her lips over and over again, her attention caught on the number steadily rising on the screen.

She feels the cuff loosen at her arm, and her teeth dig into her lip in anticipation, eyes drifting to her pulse and oxygen levels briefly before returning to the falling number representing her blood pressure.

There's a soft beep that echoes through the room when it's done, the number steady and staring back at her.

Her heart sinks.

It went up.

* * *

The first thing her mind registers is fingers combing through her hair, twirling the strands as they're tucked behind her ear. Then it's the hand cradling the back of her neck, warm and comforting and offering an anchor, she supposes, for when he leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead.

It's soft, a whisper of a touch that has her eyes fluttering open, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corners of her mouth, the haze of fatigue in her mind enough to quiet the worry swirling there.

"Hey, sleepy head," he breathes. "I thought I'd find you up here."

The hum she musters grates up her throat, aches as it escapes her chest, leaves absence lingering where words should be, so she just lets her head fall back against his neck, her gaze stay locked on his, still drawn with exhaustion.

"You okay?" he asks, thumb drifting across the base of her skull, soothing some of the tension there as though he doesn't know it's a loaded question, doesn't know the answer when he'd been the one holding her hand the entire ride home, wiping her tears at traffic lights. "You've been quiet since we got back."

She forces her lip to quirk upwards, even though tears are already stinging behind her eyes, worry still a painful pressure in her chest.

The doctor had assured them that the rise in her blood pressure was so slight it could merely be caused by exertion or nerves, had promised that her levels were still not _quite_ high enough to require constant monitoring. Had confirmed that her preeclampsia test from the last appointment had turned back negative much like the others. But had ended the appointment with the reminders of the risks of high blood pressure, only increased by her cardiovascular history.

Had left them with a reminder that if they couldn't get it down, their son would likely be born early.

"Just worried," she mumbles. "I just wanna feel like I can so something for him."

The hand not curled at her neck falls to rest on the swell of her stomach. "You're giving him his life," he reminds her, the words a whisper against the crown of her head. "You're doing _everything_ for him right now."

Her chest heaves with a sigh, her eyes falling closed to quell the burn of sadness there before cracking open again, catching the darkness of worry shining in his. "I want to do more," she tells him. "I don't want to feel like it's my fault that he might be born early, or sick, or–"

"Hey," breathes Rick, silencing the final word before it can fall, shattered from her lips. "He's going to be okay. He's going to be _perfect_. Even if he's born early, you're almost at thirty-two weeks and you heard the doctor say his chances of surviving without long term effects would be good." He leans forward, presses another kiss to her head when a tear rolls down her cheek at his words. "And if he's born early, it _won't_ be your fault."

Her nod is slow and insincere, and she knows he doesn't trust her agreement. She can feel in it in the clench of his hand on her neck, the press of his hand to the spot where her belly pokes out beneath her rib cage, where baby feet can often be felt jabbing against her skin. In the press of his lips to hers, silently begging her to believe him, to trust that her weakened body isn't a result of anything she can take the blame for.

Even though she's the one who couldn't let her mother's case go. Who went and got herself shot. Who refused to see a doctor, no matter how glaring the signs of complications were, until her heart was so weak it needed replacing.

"It'll be okay."

She nods again, the upwards turn of her lip slightly sincere as she does so.

The words have been an echo throughout the day, spoken every time the worry became too strong to ignore, was written across her face, in her frown, dark in her eyes. The entire ride home from the hospital and when they'd curled up on the couch and he'd held her through her attempts not to cry, as she'd picked at her food over dinner before slipping into the nursery without him.

To fall asleep and dream, for a moment, that she was one of those healthy women with healthy babies in the posters at the hospital.

"And right now, you're still growing a human," he adds. "Which means you need sleep, so come on. Let's go downstairs."

She mouths a silent _okay_ , ready to stand when a grin spreads across his face, his arms shifting beneath her so he can hook one under her legs, band the other around her back.

Protests die on the tip of her tongue when he lifts her into his arms, lulls her back to relaxation with the steady bounce of his steps down the stairs, into their bedroom, until he's setting her down on their bed and crawling in behind her.

He presses the words to the side of her neck one last time before she drifts off to sleep.

 _It'll be okay._

She wishes she could believe it.

* * *

 **Oops? Anyway, I huge thank you goes, as always, to Lindsey for all her help.**


	11. Chapter 11

_**December 11th**_

* * *

She sleeps later than she usually does, a fact she notes the moment her eyes crack open to a room bathed in sunlight despite the closed curtains. To an alarm clock staring back at her with bright red block letters telling her it's well past lunch, and she scrambles for the broken memory of Rick waking her to take her morning meds before letting her head fall back against the pillow.

Her whole body hurts, drained of energy despite having hours to replenish it, and she buries her sigh in the crook of her elbow, swallowing back pointless reprimands for the parts of her seemingly failing to work.

But she forces herself to roll out of bed, knees protesting when she puts her weight on them, head aching when she steps from the bedroom into the bright artificial light of the living space, to find Rick sitting on the couch, staring at her with worry gleaming in his eyes, written so evidently in the draw of his features.

He looks like he barely slept, like he did when he used to force his body to stay awake as long as possible to make sure she was still breathing through the night. Like she did when she'd tried to force herself to do the same, watching the rise and fall of his chest to remind herself that his lungs were no longer failing.

It's a split second glance past the smile usually plastered across his face, the optimism she envies. A look into the man who'd been panicked after he'd watched her die, who had been so scared she wouldn't live that he'd encouraged his doctor to find another way, _any way,_ to save her, even if that meant giving her his own heart. Who cried with her the day she'd taken the pregnancy test, his worry as visceral as her own for those moments before he'd felt the need to reassure her.

Like he always does. Like he's _still_ doing.

And if she didn't still feel panic stutter in her chest, climbing the ladder of her ribs to clog her throat, lace up her spine to haunt her mind with constant whispers of all that could go wrong, if it wasn't all so overwhelming and shattering at once, she would try to return the favor. Offer him smiles and promises that it will be okay like he's offered her.

Instead, she slips into the room with quiet footsteps, reaching out to take the hand he offers, allowing him to draw her to sit on the cushion next to him. He loops an arm around her waist, holds her to him until she's sinking against his side, into the warmth of his arms around her and the comfort it offers, no matter how slight.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

Her response is instant, without hesitation, dragged out only by the lingering fog in her mind. "Tired," she mumbles. "Like I didn't sleep."

He squeezes her side, tightening his grip on her as he does so, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. "You were tossing and turning a lot," he tells her. "I'm surprised you didn't wake yourself up."

She hums, shrugs one shoulder because he knows as well as she does why she didn't. That her body was too exhausted to drag itself from the abyss of sleep, however chaotic it may have been. That she's long since been well accustomed to sleeping through the panics of her mind, the physical manifestations of it that wrack her body.

His hand tightens at her side again, and she looks up to see worry darkening his eyes, twisting at his lips, so evident, as though he's unwilling to hide it any longer. Or incapable, just for this moment when she's slept far too long and her body still feels broken and the baby moving within her is doing nothing to soothe the assault of worries on her mind, on her heart.

"You're stressing yourself out," he whispers, understanding, sympathetic and she almost wishes it was accusing, that he could see the harm she's causing just as she does. "But none of this is your fault. And there's nothing you can do to change it."

Words well in her chest, accusatory and rude and fueled by exhaustion and she forces herself to swallow them before she can hurt him any more. Before she can spit out the _I know_ that curls at the tip of her tongue and remind him that all that could be done to prevent this is _not_ getting shot, _not_ needing a heart transplant.

And therefore having never met him.

So she buries herself in his arms instead, twisting in her seat so she can draw her feet up beneath her to keep them from going numb. Her head falls from his shoulder to his chest, sinks farther until she's lying against his thigh, curled up against him as tightly as the swell of her baby bump will allow.

She hates the ease with which her mind starts to go out again, her body thanking her for the change in position by silencing its aches as much as her ability to force herself to stay awake. Forcing her to acknowledge the poor sleep she got and sink into the cushions beneath her, her husband's touch, the draw of unconsciousness that tugs at her despite her feeble attempts at protesting.

Rick combs his fingers through her hair, tugging knots from the strands with gentle motions that only have sleep becoming more appealing, more inevitable.

Her hand curls into a fist against his thigh, thumb pressed to the spot where her head aches from simply being awake, frustration leaking into her tone when she whispers against the cotton of his pajama pants. "I'm tired."

Not just physically. Of being sick. Of risking making their son sick. Of knowing it's her fault.

She knows he knows that too, feels it when his movements come to a halt, his body tensing underneath her only to relax again, slipping back into the version of himself that doesn't worry, just cares for her and their son.

"I know," he breathes. "So sleep. We'll take it easy today."

* * *

When she wakes a second time, she's back in their bed, curled up on her side and surrounded by pillows, the duvet cocooned around her, tucked beneath her, warming her from the chill of poor circulation. And though she doesn't remember being lifted from the couch, she can imagine her husband ensuring her comfort, being careful as he tucks her in to avoid waking her, slipping away with nothing but a quick kiss to her forehead.

He's not in the bedroom with her, his side of the bed barren, but it only takes a flick of her gaze over her surroundings to spot him in his office, sitting in the seat she usually occupies, but it's angled towards her now, towards a gap in the items lining the shelves.

The sigh falls from her lips quietly, the roll of her eyes met with the slight upturn of the corners of her mouth. His gaze snaps to hers when fabric rustling echoes through the room, as she disentangles herself from the duvet wrapped around her, forces herself to sit amongst the nest of pillows he'd made for her.

She slips from bed as gracefully as fatigue and pregnancy will allow, finding her balance as she walks into the office. His book is already set aside, his features alight with tentative happiness when he reaches for her, pulls her onto his lap.

He knows the weaknesses of her body too well, as proven by the way he lifts her legs from the floor, turns her so they're hanging over the armrest, a little more level with the rest of her body. A little less likely to go numb. His thumb smooths over her knee cap, the other rubbing circles into the base of her spine.

"You don't have to watch me sleep," she tells him, even as she smudges a quick kiss to his jaw in silent gratitude for his love, his concern.

"I know," he huffs. "I was just making sure that–"

"I was still breathing?"

She lifts her head from his shoulder to watch his genuine response flicker across his face, a myriad of worry and guilt and fear that obliterates his smile, breaks her heart in the process. Her forehead falls to rest against his before he can continue from there, return to his facade of simple optimism and promises that he's sure she'll be okay when there's so little indicating that as the case.

"I'm not going to die on you, Rick," she whispers, breathing the words across his face, and despite the constant haunting of concern in her mind, there's a twist in her gut telling her _that_ is true. "I'm not leaving you," she adds, fingers tripping along his jaw to force his gaze to meet hers. "I'm not leaving _him_."

Rick's responding nod is quick, maybe too much so, but it's enough to have her pressing her mouth to his in reassurance, have her pressing herself tighter to him, breathing promises of her life past his lips.

He pulls away slowly, a hand braced at her waist, the other having settled on the round of belly. His smile blooms happy, now, no longer drawn with fear, with failed attempts at portraying optimism where there's worry. He coasts his fingers up her side, kisses her one last time before speaking.

"I have a surprise for you."

"You do?"

His grin spreads wide, his response coming without words. His hands press gently, help lift her back to her feet so she's standing in front of him. He stands with her, looping his arms around her waist from behind, leading her with minute footsteps from the bookshelf walls of his office into the living room that lies beyond.

The couch where she'd fallen asleep this morning isn't even visible anymore, hidden beneath layers of sheets and blankets. Dining chairs have been dragged into the room, aligned with the couch's armrests, covered in the same bedding, forming a makeshift roof and walls over their living room floor.

She twists in his arms at the sight, already smiling at the flicker of insecurity in his eyes, his always adorable attempts to make her happy. "You made us a blanket fort?" she asks.

He shrugs one shoulder, as though it isn't standing so obviously before them. "I figured we could hide away in it, watch movies all day. Take it easy, you know?" he says. "But only if you want to. If not, I can tear it down and–"

Her lips press to his cheek first, and then to his mouth, a hum of contentment spilling from her chest when she feels him smile into the kiss. His hands clutch tighter at her middle before he lets her go.

He drops to his knees first, making a show of pulling back the flaps at the entrance to the fort before stopping between them, turning back to face her. She takes the hand he holds out, allows him to help her lower herself to the floor before crawling past him, into the cavern of bedding that hides the sunlight, the world, allows her to sink into a single moment with her husband sitting just a few feet away and her son stirring within.

The inside of his blanket fort is full of pillows, of more blankets that she's sure he stole from every room in the house besides the master. And when he crawls inside, he goes straight towards where he laid out piles of cushions against the couch, creating a seat that he reclines against, welcoming her into the cradle of his thighs.

Her back presses to his chest, head lulling against his shoulder as he bands one arm around her middle, holds her in place, certainly feels their baby's movements against his palm. He reaches back with the other, swipes his tablet from the couch cushions behind him and rests it against her thighs.

"So, since we're taking it easy today, I figured we could live in our blanket fort and watch Christmas movies," he explains.

She hums. "Sounds good to me," she promises.

And it does, anticipation of a quiet day in with subtle infusions of Christmas curling within her as she watches him turn on his tablet, find the list of movies they can watch on it.

She selects one, sinking deeper into his when his chuckle rumbles through his chest, when his smile presses to the top of her head, and gets lost in the beginning of _It's_ _A Wonderful Life_.

* * *

"Are you up for a game?" Rick asks after he's cleared the table, against Kate's protests, and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher.

Her immediate response is a narrowing of her eyes, a confused twist of her lips as she regards him. He turns back to face her, an easy smile on his face that has her apprehension fading, her distrust of his love of extreme entertainment and surprises dissipating. He would never do anything to risk harming her or the baby, but–

"What kind of game?"

He steps towards her slowly, holds out his hand, and helps pull her to a standing position when she takes it. His free fingers trip along her side to find, where it so often lands when they're standing. "Just a board game. I grabbed a few from upstairs." He leads her back to the fort, offering gentle assistance as she crawls back inside, where a small pile of boxes is in the middle. "Monopoly? Life? Oh, maybe Sorry?"

But her gaze is tripping across the fort, landing on something else he must have snagged from upstairs, slipped back into the fort while she'd been in the bathroom.

"Looking for kisses, babe?" she teases, raising a brow as she motions with a point of her finger to the spring of mistletoe just barely holding onto its spot where it hangs from the sheet overhead.

He shrugs, even as his smile morphs to something equal parts sweet and teasing. "I mean, I wouldn't _object_ to a kiss," he tells her.

"Oh, you wouldn't?" she returns. "Well, good to know."

His hand presses harder against the base of her spine when she turns her head to catch his lips with hers, humming against the press of his mouth as he pulls away. He squeezes her middle quickly before slipping away, crawling deeper into the tent towards the board games she'd almost forgotten about. She does the same, returning to the pile of pillows they'd laid against earlier, falling so the cushioning supports her spine, so her head can lull against the edge of the couch.

"You up for this?" he asks. "Because we could watch another movie or–"

"A board game's fine, Rick," she tells him. "But maybe a simple one?"

He nods, quick and simple, smile widening as he reaches over to grab Sorry from the top of the pile. He holds it up between them as though to get her confirmation that it's simple enough, only laying the board across the floor between them when she smiles in silent agreement.

She helps him set it up despite his protests that she just relax, rolling her eyes as she reminds him that it's merely shuffling a deck of cards and arranging four pieces of plastic in a circle on the board. And though he usually favors it—and she usually lets him have it—he insists she go first, allowing her to draw a two from the top of the deck.

The game is quiet, simple enough for her to sit back and enjoy even as hours of wakefulness continue to steadily drain her of her energy. Her head remains resting against the couch cushions at her back, her hands reaching lazily to draw cards from the deck he'd set too close to her, to move the her pieces with every turn before he can insist on doing it for her, saving her the effort of leaning forward.

He suggests time and time again that they end the game before it's finished, reminding her that she's winning anyway, that he'll allow her to be deemed the champion if her body is demanding rest that Sorry won't allow. But her protests are silent shakes of her head, raises of her brow, pointed motions as she reaches over, snags a card from the desk and makes a show of playing her turn.

But by the end of the game he's playing most of her turns for her, moving the pawns under her watchful gaze, smiling every time she draws closer to the finish.

The moment she wins, he's setting the board aside in a rush, crawling over to sit at her side, his arm draped over the couch in an invitation she doesn't hesitate to accept. She nuzzles herself against his chest, pressing her ear to where she can hear the thud of his heart beyond the cage of his ribs.

He's gentle when he hooks a finger under her chin, lifts her face towards his and leans down to press a kiss to her lips, soft and sweet and drawing a sleepy smile to her face.

"A victory kiss," he whispers when he pulls away, allows her to settle back into his embrace as he drops a quick kiss to the top of her head.

She hums, nodding her head slowly to press herself tighter to him, feel the soft cotton of his teen under her cheek. "Thank you," she breathes.

"For your victory kiss?"

The puff of laughter breaks free, almost silent as it falls into the silence, echoed by his own as he kisses her head once again. "No," she answers. "For relaxing with me today. For helping me forget…"

About the rise in her blood pressure. The threat it poses to her. The threat it poses to their _son_.

When he kisses her head a third time, he lingers for a moment, pulls away onto to breath his response into the strands of her hair. "Always.'

And it's the last thing she hears—besides the steady beat of his heart under her ear—before she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

 **As always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	12. Chapter 12

_**December 12th**_

* * *

She's back in their bed when she wakes, her shirt pulled up over her belly, a sheet tangled between her legs. The base of her spine aches, her head throbbing before she even manages to force her eyes open, and the fatigue she'd hoped a second long night of sleep would shatter is even worse than it was yesterday. It threatens to draw her back under despite her son's movements within, the demands of her aching joints for moment, her mind's desire to not be weak, not spend the day barely conscious and curled up in her bed.

But it's the sound of footsteps that keeps her awake, the rustle of pages as who she assumes to be Rick sets what must be a book aside and rushes to the bed. He doesn't crawl in behind her like he usually does, dropping to sit by her bent knees instead, reaching over to swipe her hair from her face before curling his hand at the back of her knee, squeezing in quiet support.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, words quiet and tinged with worry.

The single word she musters as a response grates painfully in her throat before falling as broken sounds from her lips. "Tired."

Her eyes are still closed, blocking out the sunlight she's sure fills the room, the red numbers of her alarm clock that would be telling her how terribly late she slept in. And while she would usually ask him the time, try to gauge the failings of her body, she lets the words die in her throat today.

She doesn't want to know the answer, that much is obvious from the rush of his movements, the worry tainting his words.

Her hand falls to rest over his, tug until he's obeying her silent command, slipping into the spot he usually occupies in their bed. She rolls slowly, with a little help, so her head is still pressed to her pillow, so where her eyes just barely crack open she's met with a view of his face instead of the evidence of how much sleep her weakened body demands.

"You should get some more sleep," says Rick.

She pushes her lip out in a pout, even as her eyes fall closed once again. "I don't want to," she mumbles, even though she knows it's beyond her control, that she'll inevitably be drawn back into darkness where it's what she wants or not. "What are our plans for today?"

He goes tense, and her mind conjures the image of his furrowed brow, his face twisted with disapproval at the question. But then he's reaching over, snagging her fingers with his and squeezing gently. "We don't have any," he answers.

Her pout turns to a frown at that, her fingers clenching around his. "What about the daily dose of Christmas magic?"

"Kate," he breathes, somewhere between a huff and a sigh, between annoyed and endeared and she's not sure whether to smile or frown so she just presses her head harder against the pillow. "It doesn't matter. We don't have to do anything if you're not feeling well." His thumb traces hers, drawing patterns against her skin. "Sleep. We can do something later, if you're feeling better."

She shakes her head at that. "I wanna do something now," she tells him. "Something we can do here. Something that will make me–"

 _Forget._

Something that will make her forget how sick she feels, how it's probably a sign that her blood pressure still isn't going down, that her new meds are failing to protect her and the baby from the dangers her body poses to itself. That will allow her to get lost in a split second moment with Rick before the draw of unconsciousness is too much and she sinks into oblivion, sleep she'll remember as dreamless.

"Please, Rick."

His sigh is quiet, muffled as though he's trying to swallow it back and she would open her eyes to confirm if the pillow under her head and mattress beneath sore joints is far too comfortable, the ache in her head calmed by the darkness closed eyes allow.

"Okay," he relents, pausing for a moment to do what she images is gather his thoughts, scramble for an idea they could fulfill with her only half-awake and unable to leave their bed, with him unwilling to leave her side. "How about I tell you stories?"

"Christmas stories?" she whispers.

She can picture his smile, the quirk of his lips at the question. "Of course," he promises. "Christmas past, Christmas present and Christmas future."

"Oh?" she breathes in response, the corner of her mouth curling upwards despite her discomfort. "You gonna tell me about how a traumatizing Christmas of my past shaped my terrible Christmas present which will lead to a tragic Christmas future?"

The words die into silence, his hand tensing under hers and it's only then that her slowed mind catches up to her train of thought, that the _Christmas Carol_ reference hits too close to home. That her history with the holidays could have led her to lonely holiday seasons without anyone to celebrate with, any desire to celebrate on her own, had their paths not crossed, had he not reintroduced her to the joy it could bring no matter the traumas of her past.

"No," he breathes. "I'm going to tell you about _my_ Christmas past, _our_ Christmas present, and _our_ Christmas future."

She nods slowly, grateful that it's the option he's choosing, mouthing a silent _okay_ to tell him to continue.

Love tinges his voice as he speaks, the first words falling from his lips without hesitation and if she didn't know she had forced him into this, she would assume he had prepared a story to tell. That he'd planned to spill secrets of Christmases before she'd entered his life, when his daughter was just a little girl with a bright smile and innocent outlook on life and he was the most wonderful father Alexis ever could have asked for.

"When Alexis was five years old, it was the first year I'd really brought her out to go shopping for people," he begins. "And while we were at the mall, we'd walked by a Christmas Wish tree. You know, the one's where they put the wishes of children whose families can't afford extravagant celebrations or gifts?"

She hums, allows him to continue with the story of how his five year old daughter had swiped an envelope from the tree, demanded that because they had the money, they get a present for the little boy or girl who needed it. How they'd gone to pick it up and with time to spare, Alexis had requested they do a second one, then a third and a fourth and a fifth before she was too exhausted to continue shopping.

She falls asleep around when past him is trying to convince Alexis that they should go home if her feet hurt so much, to the soft tone of his voice as it rumbles on, fades into the background as she sinks into dreamland.

Images of a younger version of Rick with his daughter flash in her mind, hope that their little boy will turn out as amazing as Alexis echoing in every beat of her heart.

* * *

The second time she wakes up it's to the soft pressure of his hand on her arm, the scent of ginger tea wafting in the air. Her eyes do open this time, her body now aware of the grumbling of her stomach, and she catches sight of the buttered slice of toast he holds in his other hand, the shy smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

"You need your meds," he whispers, "and food."

Her nod is slow, her hands weak as she reaches for the plate, as she watches him settle the mug on the nightstand beside her. He helps her adjust the pillows from their bed so she can lean against the headboard, set her plate on the swell of her baby bump and actually sip her tea. Soothe the ache in her stomach with food and drink and the silent comfort of her husband as he lingers at her side.

He watches her eat, silent and sitting at the foot of the bed, smiling with what looks like relief even as her eyes droop with exhaustion that apparently won't go away. It takes her a moment to figure out why, for her brain to echo the doctor's words when she'd reminded them that nausea was a sign to look out for if her blood pressure was to spike, and her eating must tell him she's not nauseous.

Which she isn't. Just still stuck on her worries, stressing about what her intensified fatigue could mean despite her knowledge that such concerns will only make her blood pressure more likely to rise, to threaten her life and her baby's.

"Do you have another story?" she asks. "For…Christmas present?"

He reaches for her at that, stealing the empty plate from her hands and setting it aside, allowing her to wrap both hands around the warmth of her mug and use that in an attempt to alleviate the biting chill of poor circulation in her fingers. And then his hand lands on her bent knee, smoothing over her knee cap, the wrinkled fabric of her yoga pants.

"Of course I do," he says. "Do you want to hear it now?"

Her nod is quick, met with a hum as she brings her mug back to her mouth, takes another sip of her tea before setting it aside, too. His fingers drift along her calf, tug at her foot lightly, his smile sweet and benign when he looks back up at her.

"Do you want to lay back down first?" he asks.

She huffs. " _No_."

But her body wants her to, already longing to be eased back into the mattress, into the soft plushness of her pillow so she can fade back to sleep as he tells the story yet to tumble from his lips. So she obliges the touch of his hands, lets him help her back down to lying position, curled up on her side facing his side of the bed, where he sits down after a moment of making sure she's comfortable.

"So, for Christmas present," he breathes without hesitation, and she wonders for a second if he's taken the hours she spent sleeping to make sense of the possibilities for days yet to come, to craft a tale that won't send her heart spiraling, won't have her mind reeling from the unlikeliness of the situation. "Well, you'll still be pregnant, maybe still tired, so we would have a quiet Christmas."

His hand lands on the curve of her belly as he speaks, palm caressing the revealed skin there, fingers tripping over her belly button as he smiles.

"Not just because of you, of course, but because our lives are changing and new traditions are beginning," he continues. "So no big party, just you, me, Alexis, Mother and maybe your dad, if he chooses to come. And the baby, of course, stealing the show before he's even here."

He tells the story with as much animation as he narrates his books, voice lilting in all the right places, words chosen carefully to craft an images that flashes vividly behind her eyes when they falls shut again. His tone is soft, just above a whisper and spoken close to her ear when he shifts, lets himself sink into a lying position at her side.

"We would open gifts together, passing them around and smiling and sipping peppermint hot chocolate," he continues, "and the baby would want to get in on the fun so he would be kicking up a storm, our little rascal."

The story goes on to tell of how he'd whisper to their son if he were to get _too_ rambunctious, how they'd find mistletoe hidden somewhere in the loft, how she'd spend time with their family as he finished making dinner, talking about the upcoming arrival of their son, discussing gratitude for the gifts exchanged earlier in the day.

Her mind goes hazy around his words, syllables bleeding into incoherence as her mind gives out, sinks into the comfort his voice allows before she's letting herself fall back asleep, failing to protest the demands of her body now. Fear laces itself in her chest, wraps around her heart and clenches as, in her half-asleep state, she hears the echo of reminders that fatigue could be a symptom of elevated blood pressure.

The fear only loosens when Rick squeezes her shoulder, presses a kiss to the top of her head and continues to talk about the Christmas they might have this year.

And when she finally lets herself fall into unconsciousness, it's wishing she could believe that their son would still be in her womb by Christmas Day.

* * *

Dinner is just as simple as the sort-of-lunch he'd made her. Leftover pasta dumped into a bowl and delivered to her in bed, an identical dish clutched between his hands. She forces herself to sit up again, facing him, silent through the meal until she's reaching over for herself, setting the bowl aside, watching him do the same.

"Feeling any better?" he asks.

She shrugs, offers a silent _maybe_ that he must know means _no_. That it's her feeble attempt at not admitting to the weakness of her body, her remaining inability to function even after hours of forced sleep she never would have needed before she'd fallen ill, before she'd gotten pregnant.

His response is a sad smile, an attempt at comfort that fails to slow the constant well of anxiety within her chest, fails to relieve some of the pressure of worry as it presses hard against the cage of her ribs. Silence as he reaches behind her, adjusts the pillows again so that, despite her frown of distaste for the demands of her body, she can sink back into the position she's occupied all day. Curled up on her side with knees drawn as high as her baby bump will allow, hands folded over where their son's soft movements can be felt.

"Want the last story now?" he asks.

She nods at that, nuzzling her head deeper into the pillow, smiling to hide the true reason behind her response. To disguise her fear that if she falls asleep again, she won't wake up until morning, that her body will drag her down and refuse to let her resurface into wakefulness until the time she would normally find her eyes fluttering open with the sun rising over the city.

He mirrors her smile, though, reaching over to comb his fingers through her hair, silent, for a moment, before his fingers fall to twine with hers in the foot of space between her body and his thigh.

"How far into the future do you want?"

Her teeth catch at her lip at the question, mind swirling with possibilities for a future uncertain that he could craft so much better, with realism and emotion like she can never manage, until it lands on an answer. "A few years," she says. "When he's old enough to know what Christmas is, to believe in Christmas magic."

His smile spreads wider at that, his nod slow, allowing his head to fall against the headboard. She watches his eyes slip closed, flutter with imagination, with images she wishes she could see too, possible futures for them and their little boy, only to open again with certainty gleaming bright in blue irises.

"When he's five, just like Alexis was in the first story, we'll take him out to a Christmas Village, show him how beautiful the holiday season is outside the grand decorations of our home, and the buildings of the city," he begins, eyes flicking between her face and the baby bump upon which her free hand rests. "He'll be just like you, an inquisitive little genius, and he'll talk to Santa about how he gets from place to place, how he gets into our home to put the presents under the tree."

She hums. "You gonna tell me about when he stops believing in Santa?"

His response is a shake of his head, a further widening of his smile. "Santa, of course, will tell him that he goes down the chimney, but our little guy will know we don't have a chimney," he continues, making her brow furrow in confusion as to where his story is going. "But he won't mention it until we get home, rambling about how Santa _obviously_ made it before, but he wants to make it easier for Santa."

It starts to make sense then, her eyes falling closed so she can picture the story from there on out, dream of it instead of the possible complications of her pregnancy when she inevitably sinks into sleep. A little boy that looks just like his father, trying to use his mixture of creativity and pragmatism to craft the perfect solution to Santa's problem.

Rick goes out to explain what it would be, how their little boy would beg Eduardo to let him leave the roof door unlocked so Santa could get inside. How she and Rick would promise to lock it before they went to bed, locking their own door at the same time. How when their little boy woke up, they would explain the turned locks with promises that Santa Claus did it, looking out for everyone's safety as he made his way around the word on Christmas Eve.

How they would scrawl a thank you note and tuck it into the ribbon on their son's gift, a thank you note from Santa for making his journey a little easier that would make their son's eyes light up with glee. And how their little boy would show it to every family member that would come over that day, explaining the plan he'd concocted, how he _helped_ Santa.

How their little boy would believe in magic like his father, be pragmatic like his mother, a mixture she can only imagine as perfect, beautifully innocent and perhaps temporary, but extraordinary all the same.

"You asleep?" asks Rick after a moment, a whisper meant not to wake her if she was.

She hums in response, something that's supposed to sound like _almost_ but has no definition, her mind unable to form words when she's teetering on the edge of consciousness.

Her hand stays locked in his, tangled in the space between them, as the story he crafted continues to play out behind her closed eyes, bleeding into her dreams when she eventually sinks into slumber.

* * *

 **As always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	13. Chapter 13

_**December 13th**_

* * *

The first thing that registers when dreamless sleep fades to painful consciousness is the ache in her head, thundering to the beat of her heart. It radiates across her skull, along the column of her neck, drawing a groan from her throat where she can feel the pounding beat of her heart just as strongly.

Then it's the hand at her shoulder, clenched a little too tightly around her arm, shaking her body slightly, the clumsy rhythm of the movement almost frantic, slowing only when she goes tense beneath the touch.

She knows it's Rick before she forces her eyes open to comfort from the early-morning darkness of their bedroom, the man sitting by her feet, leaning over her body. His hand doesn't leave her side when she looks up at him, his face a blur before she blinks her vision back into focus.

His other hand is held out towards her, and it only takes a second for the haze of fatigue to clear enough for her to process the reason for his waking here, that the cradle of his palm holds the pills that are supposed to be making her feel better.

And failing miserably, if the aching root of exhaustion in her bones and the pounding in her head are anything to go by.

She doesn't even bother sitting up to take them, groaning as she swallows them without an accompanying sip of water, when all it seems to do is intensify the pain for a split second before it fades again.

Rick's hand coasts along her side at that, the tenderness of his touch making her eyes flutter closed again as his fingers trip over the ridges of her ribs, the round of her hip, the muscle of her thigh. To curl at the back of her knee, allowing him to rub tension from her legs with the press of his fingers against the knotted muscles of her legs, his thumb tracing the line of her kneecap, defined with the tight lock of the joint.

"How're you feeling?" he asks, the words a whisper she's grateful for, that doesn't worseness her headache.

Her own answer hurts to say, a painful confession that does nothing to make her feel better, only makes her chest tighten with anxiety at the possible meanings for the honesty behind it. "Terrible."

He squeezes her leg at that, an attempt at comfort, an expression of his own fear. "Anything I can do to help?" he asks.

It takes her a moment to scramble for a response, something besides simple denial to make him feel as helpless as she does. Requires a struggle with the mind so painfully stuck on worry, on _what if_ s and all that could go wrong to find a silver lining, a possibility for hope at feeling better in the drain of fatigue and pain that's haunted her lately.

When she does answer, it's with broken words, syllables grated with pain when they tumble from her lips. "Distract me?"

She can picture the nod that accompanies a final squeeze of his hand at her knee, his rushed steps to match the footfalls echoing through the silence of the room. The mattress dips behind her when he returns, the rustle of fabric and paper reaching her ears as he shifts, until he settles, reaches over to rest a hand on her hip.

"A book?" she questions.

"Of course," he answers, squeezing her leg once again. The pages rustle again with what she assumes must be clumsy attempts at turning pages with just one hand. "I'm going to read you your favorite author."

The smile quirks at the corner of her mouth, weak and shaky but matching the words she forces from her lips, the lightness she's trying to feign. "Patterson gave you an advanced copy of his new book?"

His response comes as a dramatic gasp, enough to make her forced smile turn genuine for half a beat of her heart, to have her forcing her eyes open and her head to roll her on pillow, let her gaze drift along his face, down his frame to the book actually cradled in his hands.

She uses it as a distraction from the worry gleaming in his eyes, drawing at his smile until it fades back into a frown. Stares at the dog-eared pages of the book— _his book_ —she's read over and over again, the story line drawing her back as much as the emotions it evokes. The one with his signature sprawled across the front page with some generic message he'd written long before he knew anything more than her first name after a half second.

"Keep that up and I'm not going to read to you," he counters, making her gaze trip back up to his, to the teasing half-smile spread across his face.

Shaking her head, she sinks back into her pillow, the pounding ache worsening with the movement. "No," she mumbles, "read, please."

The brush of his thumb over her knee is his silent _of course_.

And without hesitation, his voice, low and steady, rumbles along with the familiar arrangements of words. The ones she's read so many times she could probably join in, speak them with him if the simple exchange hadn't completely drained her, didn't have agony slicing through her mind only to make anxiety thud beneath her rib cage.

The words she'd first read curled up in her childhood bed, tears streaming down her cheeks only to dry as she'd gotten lost in the story, forgotten her pain and _hoped_ for a moment. That had buoyed her through coping with her mother's murder, her father's alcoholism, the endless drag of investigation that had haunted her career from the moment she was accepted to the NYPD.

That she'd been hesitant to read in his presence after they'd gotten together, only to pull it from her bag one night when the pulling of her scar was too painful to let her sleep. Only for him to roll over in bed with her, catch sight of the book and rather than teasing, whispered the story against the shell of her ear until she'd fallen asleep.

That loosens the knot in her chest today, just enough for the fatigue lapping incessantly at her mind to draw her beneath the surface of oblivion.

* * *

She wakes on her body's own volition this time, not because of the baby's harsh movements with her, or the pressure of him resting on her bladder. Not to her husband shaking her back to consciousness or drawing her back with whispers of her name against the shell of her ear. And for a moment, it presents the illusion that she might be feeling better, that the two days on her new medication has lowered her blood pressure enough for the symptoms to be manageable.

It has the smallest of smiles curling at the corners of her mouth, her awareness far less painful than it had been this morning. Her gaze flicking over the darkened bedroom, the windows where Rick must have pulled the thick, light-blocking curtains closed instead of just the sheer ones, the bathroom casting a soft glow across the hardwood floor.

And her nose catching a whiff of something sweet, almost subtle but wholly delicious that has hunger appearing past the subtle churn of nausea in her stomach for the first time today.

She dares to roll over and sneak a glance at her bedside clock, a sigh falling from her lips when she realizes it's almost when they would normally be having dinner. That she hasn't eaten since last night and still her body's demand for food is half-hearted, triggered only by the scent wafting through the apartment.

Her chest aches with the possibilities of what it could mean, so she pretends it doesn't matter.

Hands flattening against the surface of her mattress, she pushes herself to stand, feeling the earth sway beneath her the moment her feet are planted to the ground. Fatigue returns, a crushing wave that threatens to sweep her back onto the bed, flatten her against the softness of the mattress under tired bones, force her back into unconsciousness.

Ignoring that, too, she pushes forward, hands curled around the edges of bookshelves and she forces her way through his office. Aches of fatigue demand she collapse onto one of the chairs in his office, the one he'd occupied just days ago to watch her sleep. The appeal overwhelming, as much so as the knowledge that sitting will only make it harder to continue forward, to slip into the main living room for the first time today.

It's not even about the food anymore, the draw of movement at her body too demanding, replacing whatever hint of hunger had been present with nausea stronger than that which has haunted her all day. And she could easily drop onto the nearest chair, or lower herself to the floor, or call for her husband and the support he would offer without a second's hesitation.

But she forces herself to continue, unwilling to let this get the best of her, to hurt her so much she can no longer make her way from her bedroom to her living room.

She hears the clatter of metal against metal when she steps into the living room, her mind conjuring the image of Rick watching her from where he was standing, forgetting whatever he was doing before. He rushes to her side, reaching her when she's just a few steps from the couch, his arm banding around her middle, applying gentle pressure that lifts some of her weight from her feet, allows her to stumble the last few feet to the nearest cushion, her weight falling upon it with a sigh.

He drops to his knees the moment she's sitting, hands landing on her thighs, squeezing tightly in silent support as she tries to calm the dizzied spinning in her mind, the swirl of fatigue threatening to draw make her sink back to sleep without having done anything.

She forces her eyes open to keep that from happening, looking down to catch Rick staring up at her, eyes gleaming, darkened with worry and it breaks her heart. How much she scared him, how much she scared herself with nothing but a walk through their home. Nothing that isn't completely benign, simple for everyone but her, it seems.

Emotion wells in her chest, clogs her throat and burns behind her eyes and she swallows it all back, forcing herself to breathe through the pain, through the threat of tears. To distract herself with the flick of her gaze over his body, the shirt pulled tight over his shoulders, caked in white, in…flour?

"You're cooking?" she asks, the words a pained whisper met with the half-hearted quirk of her lips.

His nod is slow, his brows furrowing at the question, worry still spread across his features when he speaks. "I am," he says. "Well, I was, but they're done now."

"What'd you make?" she mumbles.

He hesitates, his gaze drifting so he can glance over his shoulder, hands tightening around her legs again. And when his lips part, she's sure it's to utter denials or protests or an utterance of _it's not important_ to precede questions about her pushing her body to its limit, beyond the rules of her bedrest and demands of her tired frame.

But when he looks back at her, he must see something in her eyes that changes his mind, because his decision flickers across his face before he's nodding, standing, walking away. Only to return with a plate balanced in one hand, outstretched towards her until it settles on the armrest at her side.

She looks down, the sight staring back at her making tears well in her eyes.

The cookies are simple, a flashback, a memory on a plate of Christmases back when she was a little girl sneaking sweets from the fridge on Christmas Eve so there would be less for the extended family's visit the next day. Rings of gold framing bright red jam and the explanation for why the scent was enough to lure her from the comfort of her med falls into place at the sight.

Rick, however, is pushing himself from the floor, scrambling to sit next to her. His hand curls at her shoulder, holds on tightly, drawing her attention back to him even as her shaking fingers reach to lift a single cookie from the plate.

"Don't cry," he breathes. "I'm sorry if I overstepped. I just…I knew you weren't feeling well and I thought something familiar…something your mom used to make might make you want to eat something."

But she's already shaking her head, pressing forward to smudge a clumsy kiss to the first place she can reach, the very corner of his mouth where his frown eases at her touch.

"No," she breathes. "No. Thank you."

He smiles, soft and sweet and slight, his free hand coming up to rest on the swell of her baby bump, tracing circles against her skin as she lifts her hand to her face, stares at the cookie she's holding only to settle her hand next to his.

The very food that drew her from her bed falls to rest against her stomach, where it pokes out obviously, untouched, uneaten.

"I wish I was hungry," she murmurs.

Not only for the familiar sweetness that would fill her mouth, the hint of her childhood crunching between her teeth thanks to the husband who would do anything for her. To make her feel better, feel special. To make her Christmas special despite all that's going on with cookies her mother made every year before she died.

But for the reassurance that her body wasn't failing her, wasn't failing their son.

He adjusts his hold on her so she's snuggled against his side, wrapped in his arms, his lips pressing a kiss to her head. "I know," he breathes. "But for now, sleep."

She does, unable to protest the demands of her body much longer, wondering about what will happen if she feels just as sick when she wakes up.

* * *

She does, curled up over the covers with hands clenched around them, shirt ridden up over her belly and pants tangled around her feet and mind a scrambled mess of things that don't make sense but can't be unscrambled. Words a bleed of confusion, echoing painfully like a dream, like a nightmare, unintelligible and broken, fragments of sentences that _don't make sense_ and she tries to put them together only to become aware of something else entirely.

Her head _hurts._ A stabbing, pounding sensation at her temples and in her forehead and at the base of her skull and all across the top of it. Everywhere and overwhelming, making hears spring to her eyes it hurts so bad, is met with the pounding of her pulse in her ears, in her throat, a sign all too certain.

Obvious enough for her fatigue, confusion-ridden mind to make sense of, to have her breath stumbling from her lips.

Fear wells in her chest, in her throat, a bubble of emotion that has tears rolling down her cheeks, hurts with its pressure against the cage of her ribs. Pummeling her heart, wrapping around it and squeezing _hard_ and forcing the air from her lungs to burn up her throat, escape as a whimper, cracked and pained and making everything hurt more.

Reverberating in her aching head, echoing as a reminder of the hurt, of the fear, of the knowledge she's just barely managing to splice together. The symptoms she was told to watch out for, the ones besides the haunting sensation of fatigue that's followed her for days.

The headache.

The pounding of her heart.

The confusion.

The churn of nausea in her stomach. Fear induced or not that has sweat forming on her brow, body burning despite the lack of blanket covering her body, the usual chill that covers her skin, prickles at her fingertips and the soles of her feet. Bile rising in her throat, fueled by anxiety, by the rise in her blood pressure that she's now certain is a reality and if she trusted her body to move without Rick's arms banded around her, she would stumble from the bed, rush to the bathroom and drop onto the tiled floors.

She'd allow her stomach to empty itself, as though that would make her feel any better. It would lower her blood pressure, save her from the weakness of her heart, her cardiovascular system, the stress supporting two lives puts on it.

But it won't help. And she can't move, can't crawl from the bed to comfort herself with cold tiles at her spine, relief of the nausea that's only worsened since her hunger dissipated earlier.

Her heart trips. Panic induced, she hopes. But she can't– She can't _know_ if it's that or a failure of the organ that was grafted into her, that wasn't meant to handle all of this so soon and might be failing on her now.

That stutters and makes her chest ache and it might be fear but it might not be and it remind her too much of–

Of when she was _dying_.

It rips a whimper from her throat first, past the thundering, stuttering of her pulse, then a whine that has the mattress shifting beneath her, around her. But her body remains still despite the rustle of sheets, of the comforter, of her husband's groan and husky mumble _are you okay_ that only makes her whimper again.

And he's lying _right there_ but the fear is too much, the darkness and the pain and the dizziness and the inability to move and it tears through her, burns up her throat like the scream that cracks when it falls from her lips.

"Rick!"

* * *

 **Oops? Sorry. But immense gratitude goes to Lindsey, because without her, this chapter wouldn't have been finished on time.**


	14. Chapter 14

_**December 14th**_

* * *

Rick had rambled her medical history and symptoms to the paramedics the minute they'd walked into the loft, lifted her from the bed with careful movements and laid her out on the stretcher. His words were a rush of panic that had everything inside her clenching tight, anxiety lacing its way around her heart and stealing her breath until one of the paramedics was reminding her to breathe as he pressed the familiar stickers of an ECG to her chest.

Those words are echoed now, in a flurry of motions as she's rushed through the E.R. doors, pushed into one of the private rooms by nurses, in the deep, steady, unaffected voice of one of the paramedics.

A blur of her condition in clipped words that intensifies everything, makes it sound all the more serious.

Thirty-four year old female. Thirty-two weeks pregnant. Nineteen months post-cardiac transplantation. Experiencing chest pain. And fatigue. And blurred vision. And nausea. An utterance of the numbers that represent her vitals that she should know the meaning of, _would_ if not for the fear clouding her mind.

The E.R. doctor appears at her side, his gaze flicking between her face and the monitor alight with her vitals as he presses a stethoscope to her chest, listens carefully, his face lacking any emotion to inform her of what he might hear. And then he's asking her to take a deep breath, and another, and another, and turning to a nurse to ask for a portable ultrasound machine to be brought in.

Rick stands at her side, leaning over her so he can press kisses to her forehead, whisper promises of her health and mantras of _you're okay_ and _it'll be okay_ against her skin.

Cold gel is squeezed onto her chest, spread with the press of an ultrasound wand as one of the nurses takes her blood pressure again, replaces the ambulance's equipment with that from the hospital, a reassuring smile spread across her face. Another grasps at her arm, informs her that they'll just be taking blood for some tests and she nods her consent as the cold of an alcohol swab is pressed to her skin.

The doctor checks her heart slowly, the ultrasound wand drifting over her chest, breath catching in her throat as Rick reminds her to _breathe_. Panic doesn't come, though; instead, the doctor turns towards her, offers a polite smile with zero comfort, but nothing to worsen the everlasting, overwhelming worry crushing her from within.

"Given the complexity of your case, I'm going to have a cardiologist look at the ultrasound, too," he explains.

She nods, too quick and dizzying. "And the baby?"

The doctor smiles. "We'll check on him, too."

It only takes him a second to turn his attention to the prominent swell of her stomach, squeezing more cold gel onto sensitive skin, spreading it with the wand just as he did over her chest, where Rick is now wiping with a towel.

"Do you know if it's a boy or girl?" asks the doctor.

She smiles, a weak quirk of the corner of her mouth. "A boy."

He nods, points to the small screen of the portable ultrasound machine before reaching forward to turn a knob, raise the volume enough for the sound from within to be audible.

The steady beat of her baby's heart.

And she can breathe again.

"As of now, he doesn't look to be in distress, but we will connect you to a fetal monitor to make sure," he tells her, nodding to one of the nurses who makes quick work of attaching the requested item to her baby bump, pulling the strap tight around her middle. "And we'll get you on an IV of medication to lower your blood pressure and saline to avoid dehydration. Is that okay?"

She nods, can't protest when she knows the danger, has been reminded time and time again of the threat her pregnancy could pose to her blood pressure, of the threat elevated blood pressure could pose to her life and her son's.

The same nurse who attached the fetal monitor gives her the IV, apologizing for the sting and pointing to the call button as she tells her to call if she feels anything out of the ordinary. And she motions to a stool in the corner of the room, informing Rick that he can sit down before she and the doctor slip from the room to tend to other patients.

Rick drops to sit at her side, his hand curled around the one where her IV pumps medicine into her veins, fingers drifting over hers, chilled by the cold fluids.

"Feeling any better?" he asks.

She shrugs, head falling against her pillow. "A little less scared," she offers, a silver lining when her body still aches with fatigue and her chest still hurts and the monitor at her side still displays numbers that are far too high. "'M glad I'm not having a heart attack."

His chuckle is dark, laced with pain that has her regretting the words. But then he's reaching out, sweeping his fingers over her forehead to wipe sweaty strands of hair away from her skin. He leans down, presses a kiss between her eyes, making them flutter closed at the comfort his touch offers, with the way panic continues to unravel slowly, slightly in her chest.

"Me too," he mumbles, pressing the words to the top of her head. "I'm so glad you're okay."

Her brow pinches at that, chest tightening, voice coming as a hushed whisper when she speaks. "Am I?" She pauses. "Is _he_?"

He reaches over at that, skims his hand over the swell of her stomach, the other drifting over her face to curl at her jaw. He's gentle, turning her head so she's facing away from him, towards the monitors displaying the spikes of her heartbeat, of their son's. His lips press to the side of her head, his kiss a silent press to her temple before he whispers against the shell of her ear.

"Your heart rate is steady and strong," he whispers. "So is his. You guys are both going to be okay."

He doesn't mention the number of her blood pressure, still far too high, having not gone down since she arrived at the hospital. A pointed, purposeful omission that she knows was intended to ease her worries.

It barely works.

She wants to tell him it did, offer him a grateful smile for his constant support, the optimism she's certain is sometimes a show. To press a kiss to his lips and get lost in a quiet moment of relief with her husband.

But the doctor walks in, what she assumes to her chart clutched between his hands, his face severe with either bad news or professionalism and she's not sure she wants to know which.

"We have some of your test results back," he says.

* * *

The walls of her hospital room are sterile white, interrupted only by the pale pink one opposite her, supposed to mirror the joy meant to come from the maternity ward. The joy she'd imagined before she'd been admitted for high blood pressure that won't drop to be closer to normal ranges. Before they'd told her she needed to be monitored due to the extra stress high blood pressure was putting on her heart, that the baby needed to be monitored to make sure he wasn't in distress.

She hates it, staring at the wall of pink with a blank white board hanging on it, dotted with hooks she imagines usually hold pictures of healthy mothers with their healthy babies, a seeming impossibility for her now. The kind she could imagine Rick taking down while she was sleeping to save her the heartache of the reminder of her situation.

Hates that she let herself dream of a world where she was only admitted here when her son was ready to be born, full term and healthy and her heart not working twice as hard as it should to pump blood for them both.

Her head falls back against her pillow, sigh heaving past her lips, eyes falling closed again. And it's only then that she becomes aware of hushed voices speaking outside the door, familiar, speaking words that make her heart clench.

"You're _sure_ it's not the heart?" She hears Rick's voice, a cracked whisper that slices at the her heart, tears her apart with the tinge of regret, of guilt in his words. "I just…should we have waited for UNOS to find her one that wasn't— They were going to take out my heart anyway. Did I give her a weak heart? Did I– Is it my fault that her body's struggling so much?"

She can hear the tears in his voice, can imagine him trying to blink them away, failing and sending them rolling down his cheeks as he speaks with her cardiologist. Can imagine everything he's been trying to hold back spilling over into the halls outside her hospital room, not meant for her ears but reaching them anyway.

"Is it– Could she, and the baby–" He cuts himself off with a choked cough, a sniffle, and she can imagine the swipe of his hand across his face. "Could they _die_ because of me?"

Her breath catches at that, heart shattering, shards slicing painfully at her chest, tears to match his unseen ones streaming down her cheeks. She wipes them away with her hand, the other falling to rest on the swell of her baby bump, to rub soothing circles against her skin, over their son's constant, however slight, movement.

"It's not his fault," she whispers, to the baby or to herself, a breath that's barely audible to her own ears. "Never his fault."

And Dr. Davidson seems to agree, speaking at the same time as she does, his voice soft, just a little louder than Rick's had been, drowning her hushed words all the same. "Mr. Castle, we wouldn't have transplanted your heart into your wife if we didn't think it was the best course of action for her," he says. "And it is very unlikely that these symptoms are caused by the so-called quality of her heart. This was to be expected."

She swallows, head falling back at the reminder. That this was always what they thought would happen, and she was the idiot trying to convince herself everything would be fine.

"But as for either of them passing, both your wife and son are currently under constant supervision. She's currently showing no signs of heart attack or stroke, and the baby is not showing any signs of fetal distress," continues Dr. Davidson. "And we're optimistic that we'll be able to lower her blood pressure, so for now, it's most important that you both stay calm."

She can picture Rick's nod, the bob of his head as he wipes at his tears once again. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay. I'm going to go sit with her."

Her head lifts from the pillow when her door creaks open, eyes fluttering to see Rick walking in, stepping towards her. His eyes are swollen, lined in red, betraying the tears that have fallen, dried, been wiped away. And she's sure hers look the same. But he doesn't mention the evidence of her tears, and she lets mentions of his die in her throat as he stands at her bed side, lean over to kiss her forehead.

"You're up," he mumbles, pressing the words to her skin.

She hums, still doesn't speak. Her palms flatten against the surface of her mattress, and she pushes herself over, pats the empty space next to her in silent demand that has recognition flitting across his features, drawing at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment, it looks like he's going to protest, until his eyes catch hers and a sigh falls from his lips and he's lifting himself onto her bed, sitting next to her. His arm loops around her shoulder, tugs her to his chest so her head falls against the lattice of his ribs, over the thudding beat of his heart. The other lands on her stomach, fingers sliding into the gaps between hers, pressing both their palms harder against her baby bump.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, turning to press the words to his chest, punctuate them with a kiss.

His arm tightens around her shoulders. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he promises.

She shakes her head. "I do," she says. "For letting myself get so stressed, making my blood pressure go up." She swallows, the hand locked with his squeezing his fingers. "For maybe hurting him." Her head lifts, chin resting against his shoulder, words silent until he turns to look at her. "For making you doubt yourself."

His lips part, protests coming as sputters that she silences with the press of her lips to his.

"Your heart isn't hurting us," she whispers, a breath across his face that has tears returning to his eyes, stinging behind her own. "It saved me, saved _this_."

Her fingers trip over his jaw, thumb wiping at a fallen tear as she presses herself tighter against him, drops a quick kiss to his shoulder.

"It's the reason either of us—me and the baby—even have a life, Rick."

* * *

Usually, when she wakes up, the first thing she looks at is the monitor at her bedside. The steady rise and fall representing her heart rate, the number representing her oxygen level, the pair of numbers displaying her blood pressure. The ones that make her heart fall with recognition, realization that the medication has still failed to get her blood pressure back within somewhat healthy ranges.

Ranges that wouldn't have nurses coming in every little while, checking her heart monitor and running a more complex ECG and shining lights at her eyes, asking her questions to ensure she's still showing no signs of stroke.

But this time, her attention is drawn by the rustle of plastic at her side, unfamiliar and making her roll her head against her pillow, glance in direction of the sound.

Rick is standing there, in the far corner of the room, his back to her, hiding whatever he's working on now. It has her gaze drifting higher, following the sparkling gleam of silver lining the ceiling, droops of shining garland hanging on the far wall.

The pink one. The happy one.

His blocky handwriting is scrawled across the whiteboard, spelling out _12 days until Christmas_ under a geometric drawing of a tree. A triangle of green dotted with circles or red and blue, topped with a lopsided yellow star and it all brings a smile to her face. Has her forgetting to check the monitor at her side, the numbers that will only make her feel worse.

"You decorated?" she whispers, watching his shoulder tense with surprise.

He turns towards her, stepping to the side to reveal what he was working on and the sight only has her smile widening.

A Christmas tree, small like the one in the nursery back at home, decorated with tiny bulbs of white and blue and silver, topped with a sparkling star to match. Alight with white and simple and beautiful, her love for him spiking in her chest along with an emotion-driven stutter of her heart.

She reaches for him, fingers outstretched and waiting for his touch as he takes slow steps towards her, explains in a rushed blur of syllables like he's afraid she's upset.

"I just figured that since we don't know how long you'll be here, we might as well make it a little happier," he says. "And I know how much you hate hospitals, so I thought making it a little less…sterile would help you calm down a bit."

Her fingers close around his at that, the moment he's an arms length away, even as his words have recognition returning to her mind, has her gaze cutting from him to the bedside monitor. Only for her gaze to land on a bright bouquet of flowers, more happiness in a room of dread.

Until her gaze flicks upwards to truly land on the display of numbers, the ones representing her blood pressure that has her blood running cold, her heart clenching _hard._

"Rick–"

He squeezes her hand, but a half syllable of response is all that comes before a knock on the door echoes through the room, has her gaze cutting from him to where Dr. Davidson is standing with Dr. Fields, her OB and her cardiologist and her breath catches with fear as Rick welcomes them into the room.

"We have news," says Dr. Davidson, making her nod, slow and hesitant and barely willing to hear what he has to say, knowing it'll be bad. "Your blood pressure still isn't going down, and I'm worried that if it remains this high it will cause irreversible damage to your heart."

She swallows. Rick does, too, so thickly it's audible, enough to make her hand curl tighter around her husband's.

"We have a couple more medications we can try, and we will try them, but Dr. Fields thinks it would be wise to also administer steroids," he continues.

"Steroids?" she breathes, shokes, brow furrowing in confusion as her gaze drifts to Dr. Fields, the woman holding up a syringe she knows will be plugged into her IV, is filled with medication—with _steroids_ —that will be pumped into her bloodstream.

"Yes, steroids," she says. "Not for you, Kate, but for the baby."

Her free hand flies to her stomach at the words, pressing hard to the swell of her baby bump until her son kicks beneath her hand, a reminder that he's okay besides the display of his heart rate being printed by the machine by her side. Tears well in her eyes, knowledge a blurred swirl in her her mind that falls as a cracked question from her lips.

"The baby?"

Dr. Fields is the picture of professionalism when she nods, offers a small, sympathetic smile. "To strengthen his lungs," she explains. "In case we have to deliver early."

And the tears fall in time with the break of her heart.

* * *

 **As always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey for all her help with this.**


	15. Chapter 15

_**December 15th**_

* * *

Her blood pressure stayed high through the night, a fact she was painfully reminded of by a nurse waking her every hour on the hour, checking her pulse and blood pressure by hand, waving that same bright flashlight before her face as they asked her to smile, to speak, to lift her arms. Another check for a stroke that would end with the night nurse apologizing for waking her, muttering about how it's better safe than sorry before slipping from the room with orders that she and Rick get more sleep.

Despite the heavy weight of fatigue on her chest, she'd found it difficult to sleep, as she couldn't tear her gaze from the lit Christmas tree at the opposite end of the room, or the steadily shrinking bag of IV fluids being pumped into her arm.

She stares at it now, as the day nurse switches the old syringe there for one filled with the new blood pressure medication.

The _last_ blood pressure medication.

Dr. Fields and Dr. Davidson had informed them with frowns that the overnight medication had also failed, that if this one didn't work by the afternoon, they would be forced to deliver the baby. And even now, after they've checked her heart again, made sure she still wasn't having a stroke, and slipped from the room with apologetic smiles, she finds herself blinking back the tears burning behind her eyes.

Rick clutches at her hand, pressing both their palms to her baby bump. The other sweeps at the short strands of hair freed from her braid, wiping them from her face with gentle motions that have her resolve falling, her feeble attempt at a straight face crumbling to a frown as a tear leaks from the corner of her eye.

"I don't want him to be born today," she whispers, head dipping so she can press her chin to her chest, lock her eyes on the protruding swell of her stomach. To coast her hand over her son's movements, cling to the fact that she can still feel them within, that he's not out in the world, too little, too weak. "He's not supposed to be born today."

He coasts his hand over her shoulder, draws her towards him so her head is pressed against the side of his, weight leaning on his shoulder. "I know," he whispers, pressing a quick kiss to her head. "I know, Kate."

His arm tightens around her, his weight shifting so they can sit more comfortably on her bed, sink back against the wall of pillows created for her comfort. So she can turn and press her body tighter to his, the swell of her baby bump in the way as she tries to drape her arm over his stomach.

"He's not born yet, though," whispers Rick. "And if he does have to be born today, he'll pull through."

She swallows, turning her head so her tears are absorbed by the fabric of his t-shirt. Silence replaces the response that should come, the agreement or denial or whimper that would slip from her chest if Rick wasn't tightening his grip on her, squeezing her frame before starting to slip away.

"I have something for you," he breathes.

She untangles herself from him, allows him to stand and walk across the room to the bag he'd brought over yesterday during one of her naps. He digs through it, pulls out two small bonbon style wrapped gifts.

"Rick," she mumbles, annoyance leaking into her tone. With his refusal to not get her gifts, his giving them to her _now_ when their son's health is in the hands of a single medication.

But he ignores her, stepping over until he's standing at her bedside, holding the presents towards her until she reaches out to take them.

"What is this?" she asks, a whisper as she tightens her grip on each one, feels the contents give beneath the pressure of her fingertips.

 _Fabric?_

Rick shrugs, motioning first to the small Christmas tree standing in the corner of the small room. "Well, yesterday you got your partridge-less not-a-pear-tree," he explains, his smile matched by her own at the words. "And today you get two non-turtle-doves."

"You better not be getting me birds, Rick," she counters, the response automatic, making his smile widen. "A new baby will be more than enough."

"I am getting you exactly zero living things," he whispers, "besides the baby, of course."

She swallows back a quip about how he had better not be getting her the baby today, the possibility too real to joke about, too tangible to deny. Instead, her hands curl tighter around the gifts clutched in her hands, fingers releasing one to draw the other to her chest.

"Does this mean you're getting me something for everyone of the twelve days of Christmas?" she asks.

"No," he huffs. "I'm getting you multiple things, corresponding to each day, for every one of the twelve days of Christmas."

Her response is a roll of her eyes, a tear at the wrapping paper that has the whole gift unfurling, rolling out across her stomach. A small spread of light yellow fabric with an unfamiliar, uniquely suitable design printed across the front.

 _Silly like my daddy,_ it reads, over a cartoon image of two monkeys, a bigger one giving the small one a piggy back ride.

"Where did you get this?" she breathes, fingers sweeping over the cotton, tracing the seams, the outline of letters and pictures.

He smiles at her reaction, gleaming white of his teeth visible in her peripheral until he leans forward to smudge it against her cheek. "I know a guy who designed it for me," he explains.

"You had it custom made?" she asks on a cracked whisper. "Why?"

"We were freaking out when we first found out you were pregnant," he says, a quiet, hesitant reminder of months just a terrifying as today, maybe even worse. "And I just wanted to remind you— _us—_ that there was a possibility that it would be okay, that it would be great. But they weren't finished in time so I figured I'd wait."

"They?" she says. "So the other one is the same?"

"Open it and see."

She does, tearing at the matching wrapping paper until a second onesie is unrolling over the swell of her baby bump, the sight making tears well in her eyes before she can even reach out to touch it.

This one is a pale shade of green, the cartoon image of elephants, a big one and a small one with its mother's tail clutched in its trunk.

 _Strong like my mommy,_ it reads.

"Rick," she chokes out, reaching down to wrap the fabric in her arms, cradle it to her chest like she'll one day do with their son.

Her husband reaches over without a word, wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses himself to her side, his lips pressing a kiss to her temple.

"He's half you, Kate," he whispers. "And that means he's so incredibly strong. No matter what comes his way, even if it's being born at thirty-two weeks, he'll pull through."

He kisses her again, traces a line down her cheek until his lips are pressed to hers, his free hand coming up to wipe at her tears.

"And so will you," he says.

* * *

Martha sweeps into the room with a flourish punctuating her greeting, an unfamiliar bag draped over one shoulder. She sets it down at the foot of the bed before leaning over for a hug, and Kate finds herself sinking into Martha's embrace, the warmth of a mother's hug.

"Thank you for coming," she breathes.

Martha's arms tighten around her before she lets her go, stepping back ever so slightly. "I'm just sorry it took me so long," she says. "I stopped by yesterday to provide Richard his requested decorations, but you were asleep."

She swallows back the reminder that she'd been asleep for the vast majority of yesterday, fading in and out of consciousness at the hands of her elevated blood pressure and the medication used to treat it. That it's a miracle she's been awake as long as much as she has been today, and she can only hope it's been caused by the new medication coursing through her veins, the effects it's supposed to have.

Rick has banned her from spending her time staring at the monitor today, reminding her that she needed to stop stressing herself out as he'd slid into bed behind her, rubbed the knots from her shoulders.

He must let his mother see the screen, though, because Martha glances over her shoulder and her lips curl into a smile.

"It's lower than when I was here yesterday," she says.

Kate goes to look at the screen, too, hopeful that in the wake of Martha's reaction, Rick will let her see. But before her gaze can focus on the numbers, a knock at the door has her turning back towards the door, to where her dad is standing with a smile on his face and a bouquet in his hand.

"Am I interrupting?" he asks.

Rick answers before her, already rushing to the door as though her father needs to be let in. "Of course not," he says, taking the bouquet when Jim holds it out to him. "I'm glad you could come."

Her father nods, turns towards her instead of Rick. "I'm sorry I wasn't here yesterday," he offers.

She shakes her head at that, opens her arms to draw her father in for a quick hug. "You had a conference," she reminds him. "And all I did was sleep, anyway."

"But you're feeling better now?" he asks, pulling away and she can see the gleam of worry in his eyes.

Martha reaches over, rests a hand on Jim's shoulder in silent support, unspoken understanding, and Kate is struck again by the family they've created. Beyond the link between Rick and herself. The one between her and his mother, between him and her father.

Between their parents, who despite their differences, bonded over mutual fear for their children as she and Rick had recovered, waited with bated breath for news about their new hearts, his new lungs. Shaping the understanding that lingers even now.

"Yeah, I'm feeling a little better now," she answers. "They ruled out any problems with my heart," she adds, for his benefit, to watch relief spread across his face, curl at the corners of his mouth.

"And the baby?" he asks.

Her breath catches at that, chest tightening with uncertainty, gaze flicking back over her shoulder to see the blanket hiding her vitals from her. He reaches over at that, skims his hand over her shoulders, squeezes gently as his gaze turns to their parents, drags her with it. To see regret dawning across her father's face, worry blanching Martha's.

"He's doing okay," says Rick, offering a half-smile as he lets his hand skim along her side, drift over the side of her baby bump. "His heart rate's steady, and they're giving Kate steroids to make the baby's lungs stronger, just _in case_ they have to deliver early, if her blood pressure doesn't go down to a level Dr. Davidson is comfortable with."

She nods her confirmation when her father's gaze flicks back to her, when Martha reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder. She leans over the bed, closer to Kate, as Jim drops to sit at the foot of the bed, rest his hand on her knee.

"Oh, Katherine," says Martha, "I am certain all will be okay in the long run."

Her responding nod is slow, slight, marked with the knowledge that Martha makes no promises about the immediate, doesn't utter reassurances that her blood pressure will fall enough and the baby will stay inside her for more than another few hours. And though the reassurance has some tension releasing in her chest, she still finds herself biting her lip, swallowing back the well of emotional the rises in her throat.

And then her father is squeezing her leg, drawing her attention to his smile.

She wonders, for a split second, if this fear she feels for her son resembles what Jim and Martha have felt for her and Rick, how either of them handled learning their children were so sick they needed new organs when she's so terrified of her son being born at thirty-two weeks even though he has a very high probability of survival.

Even if he is born today, her son will be better off than she was back when she was refusing to call and tell her father she was dying.

"And Katie," he breathes, "no matter what happens, we'll be here for you."

He pauses, his smile turning sad when he leans forward, wraps her in his arms again, allowing her to press her face to the crook of his neck like she would when she was a child, when she was scared by the monster under her bed rather than the crushing reality of her own weakness.

"And so is your mother," he promises. "Even if you can't see her, she's here for you, and she's here for him."

* * *

Dr. Davidson and Dr. Fields each offer a reassuring smile as they turn away, mumbling something about leaving she and Rick to talk as they slip back into the labyrinth of hospital halls. And the door hasn't even clicked shut yet when she turns towards her husband, fingers curling tight around the fabric at his shoulder, tugging him towards her so she can crush her lips to his, breathe her joy into his mouth as laughter bubbles from his chest and past her lips.

Her forehead knocks against his when she pulls away, his smile mirroring hers, pressing over and over again to her cheek. "You did it," he whispers. "You did it."

"He gets to stay inside," she breathes in response, pressing her face to the side of his neck when he lifts onto his feet, keeps holding her body tight against his. "He doesn't have to be born today."

"No, he doesn't," confirms Rick.

Her smile spreads wider at the words, a bubble of joyous laughter erupting from her lips, muffled against the side of his neck.

She's not completely out of the woods, tendrils of apprehension lingering in her chest, laced with uncertainty that it will last. That this final medication will manage to keep her blood pressure down until their baby is truly strong enough to be born, well enough to live in this world without depending on machines, on doctors, to keep him alive.

It's not a guarantee, but it's more than they had this morning, more than they had a few hours ago and it's enough, for now, to know that he has another day to grow stronger, to adapt for life outside her womb before he's taken from it.

"I knew it would be okay," whispers Rick, not bragging, but a breath laced with relief, with a murmur of fear that he'd left unspoken, to her at least. That slips from his lips today as the good news sets it free.

She hums her agreement, presses it to the underside of his jaw. "Thanks to you," she tells him. And the medication, the doctors, her body's seemingly new willingness to cooperate. But especially him. "You kept me calm today, helped me feel less stressed."

But he shakes his head, pulls away enough to coast his hand over her shoulder, up along the nape of her neck to cradle the back of her skull. He kisses her again, softer this time, the touch filled with love rather than an overflow of relief and she finds herself melting against him, hands curled into fists at his chest as she tries to pull him closer.

"And you," he whispers. "Especially you." He pauses, sweeps stray strands of hair away from her face. "You worked so hard for him today, Kate, to make sure he could grow for as long as he needs, as long as possible."

Her smile falters at that, head falling to rest against his again. "I was so scared," she whispers, as though he doesn't know, as though he didn't do everything he could to make _her_ feel better even as he was terrified, too, blaming himself just as she was doing to herself, worrying and pretending he wasn't for her benefit. To keep her calm. To give them _this._ "I still am."

"I know," he responds, his touch gentling further, growing more tender with every sweep of his fingers across her features, the drift of his thumb along her cheekbone, of his palm over her neck, of his fingertips over her sternum until his left hand is resting against her own, the other still curled at her jaw. "But every day counts, and at the very least, you gave him another day to grow."

She nods, slow and still scared, hesitant at accept what he's saying as true, to see the beauty in these guaranteed extra hours as reality sets in again, awareness of all that could still go wrong seeping back into her consciousness.

There's a reason they're keeping her in the hospital, monitoring her vitals like they have been since she was first wheeled into the E.R. A reason they don't trust her heart to maintain its current pace, her current blood pressure. To keep beating if she has another episode like the one that brought her into the hospital in the first place, to keep providing her brain the blood it needs, her son the ability to keep his own heart beating like he needs it to.

A reason for all of it that has worry returning, her mind scrambling for the calm that has followed her all day, for a foreign sense of comfort in the face of such difficulties, of lingering threats.

But she can't think about it, can't allow the stress to return and have her blood pressure rising, possibilities becoming reality because her mind can't stay still, can't silence its pessimism unless—

"You're thinking too much," breathes Rick, sweeping his thumb across the base of her skull.

She sighs. "I know." And pauses, chest tightened and worries returning and hand falling to clutch at his, a distraction necessary. Her gaze flicks upwards at that, catches the blue of his eyes, bright with sincere joy, with relief that she wants to feel too, to be overwhelmed with as he seems to be. "Rick?"

"Yeah?"

Her smile is genuine, only slightly forced when she presses their hands harder against her stomach, draws him closer to the swell of her stomach, her gaze falling there, too.

"Will you tell us a story?" she asks.

His own smile widens, drops a kiss to her baby bump as he looks back up at her. "Of course."

* * *

 **I'm _so_ sorry this chapter is so late. If you follow me on Twitter, you know why. If not, simply put I have a multitude of health issues that were keeping me from writing today. But I did it! And, as always, a _huge_ thank you goes to Lindsey for speed beta-ing this chapter and encouraging me all day. **


	16. Chapter 16

_**December 16th**_

* * *

Dreamless sleep is her favorite now, the fade of oblivion where hours pass in a split second and reality fades into non-existence within the limits of her mind. When the rush of the hospital fades from her peripheral and Rick's thumb drawing patterns against the back of her hand is the last thing she feels. When everything fades to darkness and she has a moment to forget her worries, the impending upheaval of their lives in favor or feeling nothing, thinking of nothing in a way that's otherwise impossible.

Waking from it is the hardest part, returning to a world where things are difficult and nurses are checking her vitals _again_ and her baby is moving within her, oblivious to the monitors tracking his life, too.

Energy festers, no matter the fatigue, her body's lingering inability to wake fully rested and ready for the day. It lingers in her fingertips, has her fidgeting with the sheet draped over her body, the pillow at her back. Has her wiggling her toes and shifting her weight as she sits and her mind racing in a rushed blur of thoughts that make no sense and too much sense at once.

Images of a nursery back at home, bathed in darkness with a Christmas tree turned off and empty shelves, a crib waiting for their little boy covered in bedding that still needs to be washed and—

"Rick?" she says, turning to where her husband is hunched over in his seat, staring at whatever game he's playing on his phone.

He looks up at his name, setting the device aside and reaching for her instead. "You okay?" he breathes.

She wishes she knew the answer.

But she hums a response, nods her head slightly because she should be fine, she _is_ fine. Her blood pressure is down and the worst of her symptoms are at bay and she can feel their son moving within, happy and healthy. She's conscious and capable like she hasn't been in days and it's enough.

It's too much.

"Can you get some stuff from home when you go?" she whispers, resting her hand over his before fidgeting fingers grow impatient and start playing with the fabric of his sleeve at his wrist again. "Some of the baby clothes that still needs to be washed and folded and sorted?"

His brow furrows at that, the confusion etched across his features making her guts twist. His other hand comes up, wraps around her fidgeting one, and he squeezes gently, lifts their tangle fingers to his mouth so he can dust kisses to her knuckles. Tender and warm and supportive, strong and so impossibly at ease that she has to look away.

"Of course," he breathes. "But…why?"

Her eyes slam shut at the words, breath catching around useless words incapable of explaining, free hand pressing against her baby bump. She shakes her head, at the question, at herself, at the situation that has her panicking even though it's far better than it was just yesterday.

How is this that she's gone from celebrating her son's health to freaking out in a matter of hours?

"I just want to make sure everything's ready for him," she whispers, voice cracking, thoughts a swirl that still makes no sense, has words continuing to tumblr from her lips. "He could be born soon, any day now, and I don't want him– I just want him to know how loved he is. I want things to be _ready_ so he knows how loved–"

"Whoa, whoa, Kate," he interrupts, hand clenching tighter around hers. He tugs gently until she looks up at him, catches the gleam of concern in his eyes with her own only for it to disappear in a blur as tears well.

He reaches up, hand hovering between them until she blinks, sends droplets rolling down her cheeks for him to wipe away with the pad the of his thumb. His fingers coast along her cheekbone, trace the angle of her jaw, the tendons along the column of her neck until he's cradling her shoulder, standing and drawing her to him. He kneels on the bed, right in front of her, close enough for her arms to fold around his middle, clutch at the fabric at his back as he holds her close.

His lips dust a kiss to her crown, breathe promises against tangled strands of her hair. "Folded baby clothes aren't what's going to make him feel loved, Kate," he whispers.

And it's _so_ obvious, has her rolling her eyes at herself, tension loosening in her shoulders. She releases him, just enough for him to sit down next to her, keep one arm banded around her waist as the other settles against her baby bump.

"He's going to know how loved he is no matter what, okay? Because he has you for a mother, and I've seen how much you love him,," he whispers. The hand not pressed to the base of her spine falls to her leg, rubs the knots from around her bent knee. "Hey, what brought this on?"

So much. All of it. Too much.

Her heart still stutters like they've been given extra time _without_ their son, hours or days or weeks before he arrives, spare time for him to grow inside her, for them to prepare outside. To make sure that everything is perfect for the day when her body doesn't listen to medications, when her heart can't handle the stress of pregnancy, or when their son decides it's time for his arrival.

Like she's supposed to have everything in place, but stuck in a hospital room with a still weakened body, she _can't._

Can't give their little boy all he deserves.

And can't explain it to Rick when he's staring at her with eyes so filled with benign curiosity, with love and concern. So she shrugs, mumbles an _I don't know_ that barely reaches her own ears, and tugs him closer. Hopes that the wrap of his arms around her can reassure her scattered mind of the love between them, as a couple, as a family.

That their son doesn't need a perfect nursery or neatly folded clothing or a mother with a body that didn't fail him.

At least he'll have _this_.

* * *

Alexis' visit is a surprise that whisks through her room with a silent flurry of bright orange hair and quiet greetings. She's covered in a thick winter coat which reminds Kate of the outside world once again, snowflakes melting in the strands of her hair, gleaming moisture of hospital heat melting evidence of the winter outside that few within its walls can reach.

She settles in the chair her father usually occupies, filling his absence as he's gone to shower and gather more things from home, a soft smile curling at her lips as she frees herself of her scarf.

It has Kate almost self conscious of the gown the hospital keeps her in, the thin layer of fabric that barely covers the swell of her breasts, of her stomach, the line of her spine where flaps part at her back. Her hands coast along her baby bump, fingers curling at the fabric of the thick woolen blanket they'd given her and drawing it up over the length of her body as though Alexis didn't meet her when she was wearing nothing but a hospital gown and a clip on her finger tracking her heart rate.

"How are you feeling?" asks Alexis, folding her hands over her knees. She tries to be subtle, but Kate notices the way her stepdaughter's gaze flicks over the various screens tracking her vitals, and the baby's.

Her response is hesitant despite its honestly, an admission to weakness to the girl who almost watched her die. "Better. My blood pressure's down," she says, motioning with a flick of her wrist to the screen displaying her heart rate, oxygen levels, blood pressure. The soft beeps of reassurance it emits lightening the weight of worry in her chest.

"That's good," whispers Alexis. "Dad sounded really worried when he called." She pauses, blue eyes to trace the patterns of blue in her jeans. "He said you've been having a tough time…feeling like you're failing the baby."

She swallows back the anger that Rick would share that with his daughter, the insecurity lacing its way around her heart that Alexis will agree, unlike her father's constant insistence that Kate's doing everything she possibly can for the baby growing within her. Opting instead to smooth the wrinkles in her blanket, dip her head to watch the drift of her hand over her belly.

Confessions that she's felt that way since the day she'd found out—felt that she'd failed her child by simply conceiving him despite doctor's orders—die on her lips, are replaced with a feeble shrug, a broken mumble. "A little." She squeezes her eyes shut, forces away the well of emotion behind them.

Alexis shifts closer, the motion felt rather than seen as knees press into the edge of the hospital mattress, a hand landing in the space next to her, a silent invitation. Kate forces her eyes back open, turning to look at her stepdaughter, the half hearted smile curled at her lips.

"Do you remember the day my dad gave you your engagement ring?" asks Alexis, a random change of subject that has her blood running cold, or affection simmering within it, the difference so stark and yet blurred. "That night?"

She nods her head slowly, gaze falling to Alexis' outstretched hand, pale skin pressed against paler blue sheets.

"What we talked about?" continues Alexis.

Her head bobs again, hesitant admittance to the importance of that moment when panic had bled into a bloom of certainty like she'd never known, love like she didn't think was possible until she'd met the family that had welcomed her with open arms.

Rick had proposed without a ring, slid one onto her fingers a week later as they'd shared dinner in the quiet of the home they'd already shared. But that night had sent her heart—the metaphorical once rather than the one that had still been healing within her chest—into a panicked flurry of broken beats of uncertainty in herself. She'd found herself wrapped in the warmth of her pajamas, curled up on the couch, when Alexis had walked in.

It was that day that she'd confessed things even Castle hadn't known at the time, fears that were unfair to place upon his daughter but came falling all the same.

One hand had been pressed to her chest, where she could feel the beat of his heart turned hers against her palm, the other fumbling with the ring she'd slipped off her finger.

"You told me that day that you didn't know _how_ to love people," said Alexis, voice so easy and matter of fact, calm despite the weight of the recollected moment. "That you loved people, loved my dad…and me, but were scared that you would screw it up because you didn't know how to show people you loved them, didn't know how to let yourself _be_ with people you love."

She nods, remembering the way the confession had fallen from her lips, the most composed communication of her thoughts, her fears, in years, whispered to the wrong person, the one who didn't deserve to hear her upset ramblings about her failure in relationships.

"But here you are."

A choked laugh escapes her throat, a puff of amusement slipping past the clutch of pain. "You sound like your dad," she tells Alexis. "That's what he said…the day they first warned me this would probably happen."

"Well, he did raise me," counters Alexis, laughing with her for a moment before going serious again. "But you didn't screw it up, Kate. You know how to love people when it's the right people."

She scrambles for a response, something intelligible among the shards of sentences in her chest, but finds the well of emotion too overpowering to form words around. So she nods, again, instead, the slow bob of her head as her gaze catches Alexis' again, finds the remnants of yet to be spoken words gleaming in bright blue eyes.

"That was the day I told you about my mom," Alexis continues. "About how she didn't know how to love people, how to love me, even though I'm sure she did."

Kate forces a smile, words curling at the tip of her tongue, a repeated utterance of _I'm sure she does_ , until Alexis continues before she can speak.

"You love the baby," she says, "and you know _how_ to love the baby. And that alone means you could never fail him."

She's crying when Alexis finishes, blinking back tears just as she had the day she'd confided her fear of screwing up her relationship with Rick in the privacy of his living room. Blinking so they roll down her cheeks, she smears them across her skin with the back of her hand. Her vision is still hazy when she looks up to see Alexis worrying her lip between her teeth, watching with concern gleaming in her eyes.

"Thank you," she mumbles. "For this…and just for stopping by."

Alexis smiles at that, leaning back more comfortably in her seat. "You're family, Kate," she promises. "Of course I came to visit."

* * *

Rick steps into the room with quiet footsteps and quick glances in her direction to make sure she's awake, at the monitors behind her to make sure she's healthy. A tote bag hangs over one shoulder, and when he drops it onto the foot of her bed, it falls over, reveals a pile of baby clothes nestled within it.

The sight draws a smile to her face, has her biting her lip as her gaze flicks back to his, drifts along to his body to what else he brought with him. To rectangles of gleaming silver paper wrapped in ribbons of sparkly blue, tucked under his arm until she takes note of them, looks back up to see his grin.

"On the third day of Christmas, your true love brings to you…" he trails off, leaves her to continue.

She shrugs, gaze following his movements as he lays out the three identical gifts in front of her. "I'm going to go with non-French-hens," she says.

He chuckles. "Very astute." And drops a kiss to the top of her head. "Open them and see what I actually got you."

With a nod, she closes her hands around the nearest of the three gifts, feels the paper give beneath her fingertips when she tugs the ribbon from around it. Her unwrapping is methodical today, folding pieces of tape over the edges of wrapping paper as Rick groans at her side, all too annoyed with her unwillingness to tear at the paper like he usually does.

When she does have it all unwrapped, it's to reveal the back of a picture frame, the sight making her heart leap with anticipation, impatient fingers flipping to to reveal the image he'd chosen.

It has her breath escaping her as a stutter, tears welling in her eyes.

A black and white image of her, bathed in early morning sunlight, wearing nothing but her undergarments, strips of black against her skin. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, revealing a sliver of her facial expression even though she's not facing the camera, staring at the mirror in their bedroom instead. At the place where her hands rest, on the barely-there swell of her stomach, growing to be just obvious enough to look like the beginning of her baby bump.

"When…" she breathes, a question she doesn't have to finish because he's already cutting her off with an answer.

"The day your belly popped," he says. "You couldn't stop staring at it, so in love with the evidence of our little baby. It was _beautiful_ , Kate."

She swallows the lump of emotion in her chest, fingers trailing over the black edge of the frame when her gaze shifts to the other two gifts. "Are they…the same?"

"Open them and see."

She's far less careful this time, tugging the ribbon from around each gift before tearing into the paper, digging her nails into it from what she now knows is the front of each gift, tearing it away to reveal the picture within.

The second one is of her in her office, taken through the window from the bullpen, of her sitting in her chair, paperwork surely lined up on her desk, but attention stolen by the then-more-prominent swell of her baby bump. One hand flattened against the top of it, the other cradling the bottom, her facial expression on display. Furrowed brows and hopeful eyes and mouth agape in concentration laced amazement.

"That one's from when he first started kicking," explains her husband. "You know, when his movements were still so slight that you were barely sure you were feeling them right? You used to do that all the time, get so focused on feeling him and it was _adorable_ , seeing you want to connect to our son so much."

She's blinking back tears by the end of his explanation, cradling the photograph to her chest before she turns to the last one, unwraps that one just as quickly.

The third photograph is of her in the nursery, bright afternoon sunlight coming in through the window at her side, painting highlights across her features as she sleeps. Her shirt had ridden up over her belly, and her hands were clasped over the bump, over a piece of fabric draped over it that makes the picture all the sweet.

A onesie she'd been folding when she'd fallen asleep, dwarfed by the size of her baby bump, meant to fit the baby nestled within.

"See, Kate?" breathes Rick, reaching up to wipe tears from her cheeks. "You love him so much, and he'll know that. How could he not?"

He motions to the pictures with a flick of his wrist, has wet laughter spilling from her lips as she leans into him, lets him press a quick kiss to her forehead, a second one to her temple.

"You'll show him all the time," he says. "You already do, not with folded clothes but like _that_ , by wanting him as badly as you do, protecting him as much as you do. He'll never doubt how much you love him."

She releases the picture frame at that, reaching for her husband instead, curling her hands around the fabric of his shirt, drawing him towards her to press a kiss to his lips.

"You know what my favorite part about those pictures are?" she breathes. "That they show how much _you_ love _us_."

His responding smile spreads wider, is pressed to her lips and then to her cheek and then he's pulling away, leaning down. He presses his lips to her belly, through the thin fabric of her hospital gown, where their son's slight movements can still be felt.

"Of course I do," he breathes, resting his cheek against her baby bump so he can look up at her instead. "And I'll never let either of you doubt it."

* * *

 **As always, immense thanks goes to Lindsey for all her help. (And thank you all for all the well wishes.)**


	17. Chapter 17

_**December 17th**_

* * *

Living in a hospital, she's long since learned, is boring. A drag of repetition, the same handful of channels on TV and nurses stepping in to check on her every few hours, the constant whir of machines around her to match the white sterility of everything else. And though the simplicity of hospital life should be familiar, given the months she spent occupying a room far too similar to this one, she finds it's still an annoyingly draining way of living.

Last time, lying around and waiting for a heart, forcing her body to recover once she'd gotten one, hadn't been quite as bad. Her energy was constantly drained and the majority of her days were spent in the timeless oblivion of sleep. Doctors and physiotherapists and Rick, lying just a few feet away, always giving her something to do, telling her to push herself, to do her best.

 _This_ is the opposite, being forced to sit around despite her desire to live her life, being limited to a room when the enticing bustle of the city continues around her, outside the hospital walls.

Rick, however, does his best to entertain her, to present her mind with something to do the best he can, even if it's just for a few minutes, despite their knowledge that she may be here for weeks. That this seemingly endless drag of nothingness may continue until the day their son decides to make his entry to the world.

Today, he's taken to standing across the room from her, creating a game of Pictionary with the whiteboard still displaying his countdown to Christmas Day. Holiday themed drawings traced with his limited drawing skills as he exaggerates his frustration to have laughter tumbling from her lips as the minutes continue to tick by, a little faster when she gets to enjoy this time spent with her husband, gets to forget her fears about her pregnancy.

His newest drawing is started with a pair of ovals and two lines and clumsy erasing with his fingertip as he huffs about how hard it is to draw cylinders. And slow movements drawing curved lines from the edge of his cylinder that has her brows furrowing.

"Coffee?" she guesses. "Are you trying to taunt me, babe?"

He turns to face her, a smile cracking across his face at her pout, and shakes his head. "Not coffee," he tells her. "But you're close."

She watches him pop the cap back onto the black marker and reach for the brown one, fill in the mug he's drawn where she supposes liquid would as though the addition of such a generic color will differentiate this drink from others.

"Hot chocolate?"

He finishes the coloring the mug in with a flourish before turning back to her, closing this marker too so the _click_ of the lid sliding into place echoes through the room. "Bingo!"

Her teeth catch at her lip at his smile, the crinkle of glee at the corners of his eyes that had been missing from his smile when she'd been at her sickest. Just a few days ago when he'd wake her for medication and food and distractions from the difficulties of her pregnancy.

Pictionary to distract her from her boredom is far better.

"That's not Christmassy," she whispers, motioning with a flick of her eyes to the minimalistic drawing of hot chocolate.

It has his jaw dropping in mock offense, the marker clattering to the floor only for him to bend down and pick it back up in a second. He sets it on the edge of the whiteboard before walking over to her, dropping onto the bed by her feet with a rustle of coarse, cheap fabric beneath him.

His hand settles on her knee, thumb tracing the ridges of bone there, his expression of feigned offense fading to a smile with every sweep of his fingertips over her skin.

"It is for us," he says. "You can't tell me you forgot that."

She returns his smile, shaking her head, leaning forward to dust her lips to his. "I haven't," she whispers, a promise, a breath against his mouth when he kisses her again. "Just making sure you haven't, either."

"Me?" He scoffs, soft laughter bubbling from within. "As if I could forget the day my fiancée gave up her Christmas tradition to surprise me in the middle of the night with hot chocolate and mistletoe."

His smile softens at the words, at the memories, and she lets her forehead fall against his as it does. Lets herself sink into quiet reminiscing just as he does. To memories of the way her gut had twisted with nerves and how she'd pressed her coffee cup to her chest to remind herself of his love for her, of the happiness that would bloom across his face at the surprise.

Alexis and Martha had already fallen into bed for the night when she'd stepped into the loft, found her now-husband sitting at his desk, staring at a blank word document in an attempt to write. He'd looked up at the click of her heels against the hardwood, watched with mouth agape as she'd set the paper cups of hot chocolate down on his desk between them, slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out a single sprig of mistletoe.

It's the soft sound of a ringing bell that draws her from her reminiscing, has her gaze flicking upwards towards the sound.

To where a jingle bell hangs.

From a single sprig of mistletoe.

"So you had a plan, huh?" she says, laughter spilling from her lips when he presses a kiss to her cheek. "Trying to get me to kiss you."

"I don't need mistletoe to do that," he responds, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth this time. "Do I?"

She hums, feigning thoughtfulness before turning to meet his gaze, to press forward and catch his mouth with hers, kiss him once, twice, three times. "I suppose not," she mumbles, kisses him again because his smile is beautiful and his hand is drifting to her hips and the joy in his eyes is too enticing to ignore.

Just as the possibility of it had been last year when she'd given up half her tradition in order to spend Christmas with him.

When she'd given up…half.

He's given her life, and last Christmas? She'd only given up half of a tradition.

"Hey," he breathes, pulling away, grip tightening on her hip. "You okay?"

Her smile is just a little forced, a hint of effort going into the upturn of her lips when she nods. "Yeah."

* * *

Rick only really leaves her alone when she requests something that can't be found in the hospital, or when he knows someone else will be showing up to keep her company. Another attempt at assuaging her boredom by never leaving her to assume herself with mindless TV and an endless cycle of monotonous Christmas movies.

Today, he only slips away to do whatever secretive thing draws his attention when his mother knocks on the door, lets herself in without hesitation as Rick jumps from his seat to greet her. He hugs Martha quickly, stepping back into the room to press a kiss to Kate's forehead, then her lips as he mumbles his goodbye and a promise that all she has to do is call if she needs him or anything from the outside world.

And she watches him slip away with a quick wave before turning to Martha, offering her mother-in-law a smile as she steps deeper into the small room, reaching out to hand Kate one of the paper mugs she's holding.

"Peppermint hot chocolate for you and the baby," she offers, smiling as she takes a sip of her own drink. She walks around the bed, dropping into the seat Rick usually occupies. "How are you feeling, Katherine?"

Her teeth catch her lip at the question, uncertainty hidden by the rim of her cup when she takes a small sip of her hot chocolate, lets the peppermint flavor burst on her tongue. When she sets the drink back down, though, her frown must still be evident because some of the light fades from Martha's eyes, and she reaches over to set both their drinks on the small table at the foot of the bed.

A hand lands on Kate's shoulder, a gentle squeeze drawing her gaze up to Martha's, to meet the silent worry gleaming there.

"Katherine?" she says. "Are you okay?"

She's still biting her lip when she nods, a weak bob of her head that must be far from convincing because Martha is tightening her grip on her shoulder, twisting in her seat so they're facing each other a little better.

"Assuming you're not feeling ill again because Richard never would have left your side," she says. "Is it anything I can help with, dear?"

She shakes her head again, even as hormone-induced tears well in her eyes, catch at her lashes when she tries to blink them away. Martha's hand slips down her arm, fingers wrapping around hers as they leave her shoulder, offering a comforting squeeze that has the knot in her chest loosening, allowing words to tumble from her lips.

"It's stupid," she mumbles, still shaking her head, punctuating the words with self-deprecating chuckle.

"Oh, no," says Martha. "Nothing you're feeling could be stupid, Katherine." She pauses, offers a soft smile. "Is it something you'd like to talk about?"

The denial is on the tip of her tongue, assurance that she can handle her random and misguided tangle of emotions without rambling to her mother-in-law about it. That it's _nothing_ , irrelevant in the moment and for at least the year to come, born of a happy memory that swirls in the back of her mind with echoes of difficulties she'd hate to live through again, that scare her not for what they were last year, but what they could mean for her future.

It's useless to worry about them now, to set the questions welling in her chest free, but Martha squeezes her hand again, a mother's touch of comfort and willingness to help and before she can swallow it back, the explanation is set free.

"Rick and I, we were talking about last Christmas earlier, how I surprised him by cutting my shift short," she tells Martha. "And it just…reminded me of how hard it was just to give up _half_ my tradition." She pauses, gaze falling to the sheet draped over her legs, the thin cotton covering her baby bump. "And I just…I was thinking about how much I like having my independence. How I _hate_ the hospital and bed rest because I can't do anything for myself, and how difficult it was to give some of it up for Rick, and…will I be able to do it for _him?_ "

"Oh, Katherine," breathes Martha, tightening her grip on her hand. "Becoming a mother doesn't mean you have to completely abandon your independence." She pauses, waits for Kate to look up at her before continuing. "Your career will always be important, alone time is something you'll need every now and then, and your traditions? You can share them with your son as he grows up."

Her responding nod is slow, hesitant, slight enough that she doesn't draw her gaze from the swell of her stomach.

"And Richard understands the importance," continues Martha. "He had to balance his needs and Alexis' when she was young. Have you talked to him about this?"

She swallows again, allowing her silence to be the answer Martha seeks, only to feel her mother-in-law release her hand, fingers coasting along her shoulder once again, drawing her closer. Giving into the gentle pressure against her back, she turns back towards Martha, allows herself to be enveloped in her arms, pressing her chin to her mother-in-law's shoulder as she sinks into her.

"I know I cannot imagine most of your fears regarding your pregnancy, dear," says Martha. "But _this,_ I understand, and I hope you'll believe me when I tell you that you are more than equipped to handle it.."

* * *

As usual, Rick returns to her hospital room with a smile, eyes crinkled at the corners when he sees her and his mother watching a sappy romantic comedy that's playing on one of the hospital channels. He comes bearing gifts, too, the usual wrapped presents in bags today, two in each hand that he sets on the foot of her bed before leaning over to greet her with a kiss.

"How are you feeling?" he whispers.

She hums. "Better."

"So Mother helped with whatever it is that was bothering you?"

Her smile widens, eyes narrowing at his words, at the reassurance that he knows her too well to have not realized something was wrong. That he knows her enough to have not pushed when she'd denied him an explanation, to notice from the moment he walked in that tension has been erased from her shoulders, a weight, however small, lifted from her chest. And she presses forward to kiss him in response.

"Katherine just needed to get a little something off her chest," says Martha. "And I hope I was able to help her do that."

She nods at that, reaching out to give Martha a hug when she stands to bid them goodbye and slip back into her own life that continues beyond them, beyond the hospital. Rick mumbles a _thank you_ just loud enough for Kate to hear before letting his mother go and watching her leave, the door clicking shut behind them.

He turns back to her the moment they're alone, dropping to sit by her bent knees, reaching out to rest his hand on her thigh. His lips press to hers again, a softer, longer greeting that has her sinking into him, humming into his kiss as he pulls away.

"Did Mother really help?" he asks.

"Yeah, she did."

Rick nods, squeezing her leg before letting her go, leaning back to grab the handles of all four gift bags he'd brought with him. "Ready for today's presents?"

"The four non-calling-birds?" she says, gaze flicking from the bags to his face when a nearly silent puff of laughter escapes his chest. "If you want to give them to me now, sure."

His response is to reach around, plant one of the gift bags on her lap, a smile on his face when her hands curl around the top where tape traps whatever her gift is and a sea of tissue paper. He motions with a jerk of his head for her to open it, watching her as her nails slice through one of the piece of scotch tape, popping the top of the bag open.

She makes a show of tugging the tissue paper free, throwing at him as laughter spills from her lips and melds with his, ringing happily in the air only to call silent when her hand closes around the contents of the bag. Cool metal presses to her palm, confusion making her mouth snap shut and brows furrow, gaze cutting to his.

"What did you get me?"

He shrugs, motions to the bag again in a silent _see for yourself._

So she does, tugging the gift from the bag to reveal a roughened, faux-rusted metal _N_ , home decor cradled between her hands in her hospital room, more confusing than anything else. But before she can ask for an explanation, he's setting the empty bag aside, reaching for the next one to plop it in her lap, too.

She opens each one more quickly than the last, their tissue paper fight dying as curiosity has her rushing to decipher what his true gift is. To reveal a second letter, a _Y_ , and a third, a _P_ , and a fourth, a _D_. Each in that same foggy metal edged in red-orange that she can't help but think would have fit in perfectly in the apartment she'd left behind after moving in with him. That he'd only seen a few times, which he'd spent analyzing and admiring the entirety of her home decor for ways to twine his taste with hers.

"What are these for?" she asks, even as her fingers trace the letters over and over again.

 _N.Y.P.D._

"Your office," he says, making her head jerk upwards to catch his gaze. "Or whatever you want it to be, but I figured that we have an extra room upstairs now that Mother's moved out, and we could make it a space for you. And those could go in it. Assuming you like them, that is."

"I love them," she says, honesty lacing her tone when her gaze flicks back down to the letter laid out on the bed before her. "Did your mother tell you what we talked about?"

"No." She looks back up at him, catches the sincere confusion shining in his eyes until his gaze catches her and realization dawns across his features. "Is that what was bothering you? Not having space for yourself? Because I can leave more often if you–"

She shakes her head. "It's not that, babe," she promises. "I just…wasn't sure about if I would be able to balance the independence I'd always…loved with being a mom, and it kind of freaked me out."

"Oh." His hand returns to its spot on her leg, squeezing in tender reassurance much like that his mother had offered. "Well, this could certainly help, with that. But I promise this has nothing to do with today. I'd actually been planning it since Mother first announced she'd be leaving. Your style was really fun to try and pinpoint."

He's smiling wide and happy, the upturn of his lips contagious and spreading to her own face as she dips her head, hides the stain of red blooming across her cheeks as she stares at the letters once again. "You did a good job," she says. "Not just with this, but with all of it." Her gaze returns to him, hand landing over his. "You know me too well."

"What do you expect?" he asks. "I'm a writer, I observe. And you're my favorite person to observe."

She finds herself leaning forward as he speaks, over her belly so she can silence with him the press of her mouth to his, pull away with with a final quick peck to his lips.

"Thank you."

* * *

 **I'm so, so, so sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up. As previously stated, I have some health issues and they'd been acting up too severely for me to get this chapter finished in time. That being said, I do still plan to have twenty-five chapters to this story, and hope that you guys can forgive me my advent-fic failures given the circumstances. And, as always, immense thanks goes to Lindsey for all her help with this story.**


	18. Chapter 18

_**December 18th**_

* * *

He'd brought her computer over the day after she was admitted, on his first trip to and from the loft for things they may need over the course of her hospital stay, and in case the baby were to be born. But she'd only spent a few hours on it, finding that without work to occupy her time, it seemed pointless. That all she would do to entertain herself on it could be done just as well on the tablet he'd all but given her as he spent his time writing and editing on his own computer.

But today the laptop sits on the table, as closer to her as her baby bump will allow, screen alight with images of various items, furniture and decor alike, that could occupy the office he's set on giving her.

She'd tried to protest, insist that changing his mother's room into a guest room would be far wiser, given that they've already changed what _was_ the guest room into a nursery. But he'd held her close, pressed kisses to her head and reminded her of how rare the event that they have guests really is, of all the benefits of having a space for her given her career, her desire to climb the ladder within it or to move on to something less demanding.

Something that didn't require a body healthier than her own, and didn't threaten her ability to return home to her family the way being a detective did.

And he'd gotten her to cave.

So she sits here now, trying to decide what exactly they should do with the room, feeling the lock of his gaze on the side of her head as he watches her enjoy the gift he'd given her. A smile is spread across his face the whole time, visible in her peripheral and every time she sneaks a glance in his direction.

"You don't have to watch me like that."

His grin widens, his joy drawing her attention from her computer screen. "But I like watching you," he says.

She rolls her eyes. "That's still creepy."

"No it's not," he argues. "I'm just making sure you like your gift. Is it a satisfactory distraction from…all of this?" He motions to the room around her, lingering on the monitors at the side of her bed, the IV pole on the opposite side still constantly pumping fluids and regular doses of medication into her bloodstream.

"Mostly," she answers, shrugging one shoulder as she watches his brows furrow, smile fading just a bit.

"Only mostly?"

"You're son is kickboxing again," she explains. "And it's a little hard to…forget the danger to his life when he's reminding me of it so much."

Rick nods slowly at that, setting his phone aside as though he'd even been paying attention to it before leaning forward, pressing his face between her body and the hospital table. He looks up at her from under his lashes, a smile on his face when his hand lands on the top of her baby bump, skims over the fabric of her hospital gown to rub over the spot where their son's movements can be felt.

"Oh, is he now? We better try and fix that."

He presses his cheek to her baby bump, turns to he can drop a quick kiss to her belly, and her hands fall from the keyboard so her fingers can sift through his hair. She traces the shell of his ear with her fingertip as he caresses her belly, hand drifting along the swell of her stomach as though the external pressure will be enough to soothe their son.

They both know it's his voice, the low rumble of it, that usually lulls their son to calm, and he tries that next, hand stilling as he lips press to her baby bump once more, whisper to their little boy within.

"Hey, you. I know you've been in there for a while, and if you're like your mom, you're probably going a little stir crazy," he laughs, laughing when she pats the side of his head in mock offense. "But you know what? You have to stay in there for just a little while longer and then you get to come out and see the big beautiful world. Doesn't that sound cool? The only problem is that while you're in there, your mommy is a little worried about you, so we're trying to distract her, and your kickboxing isn't helping."

She laughs at that, feels him smile against her stomach as she does.

"So how about we make a deal?" he continues. "As soon as you're big enough, your mommy and I will put you in karate or whatever martial art you want, but for now, how about you rest a little more and keep growing, okay, Buddy?"

Still laughing, she tugs on his hair, pulls him away from her middle so she can press a grateful kiss to the corner of her mouth, meet his smile with her own. But his touch is tender, worried as his fingers sweep across her nape, over her shoulder, his forehead falling to rest against hers.

"You still freaking out?" he asks.

She shrugs. "A little."

"Just a little?"

Her smile pinches into a frown as she pulls away, catches his gaze with hers only to look away. "Maybe a little more than a little," she says, voice low.

He curls his fingers beneath her chin in response, drawing her gaze back to his, to his reassuring smile and the light in his eyes masked by a hint of insecurity. "I told your dad,'" he tells her, making her brows furrow in silent question that forces him to continue. "I just thought…you would want to have your mom here and have her reassure you, but because she can't be here, he would be the next best thing."

Tears burn behind her eyes at the words, the mention of her mother sparking embers of longing she's tried to surprise for the entirety of her pregnancy. Tried to deny existed to focus on the new life yet to enter this world instead of the one stolen too soon, the person who was supposed to witness all of this, be here to celebrate her grandson, anxiously await holding him in her arms, and…isn't.

"Rick–"

"I know he's not her," he adds, "but he knew her better than anyone. And I just…I hope it can give you a little peace of mind."

Her teeth dig into her lip, a lump of emotion clogging her throat when she tries to respond, but she does what she can, leans forward to kiss him once again and mouths a silent _thank you_ against his lips.

* * *

Her father arrives not with his briefcase from work or food from the outside world, not even with a smile beyond the slight quirk of his lips, and she wonders for a moment if being asked to reassure her in her mother's absence was too much. If she should request that he forget the whole thing, tell him that they can just talk about everything or nothing, about the baby or his law firm or anything else.

But then he's reaching into his jacket, drawing two envelopes from the inside pocket and holding them out to her.

Rick jumps from his seat at that, a smile on his face when her father turns to face him. He drops a quick kiss to the top of her head in silent goodbye before turning to her father, already spouting something about getting outside world snacks for the nurses to thank them for their care as he slips out the door with nothing but a wave.

Her father chuckles when the door clicks shut behind him. "You know, for the person who asked me to come, he sure didn't waste any time in leaving."

"He just didn't want to intrude," she explains, even though her father probably understood, even as her own laughter spills from her lips.

Until her hands fall to her lap and she's reminded of the envelopes she'd sat down there, and laughter dies on her lips as her fingers close around them both. Spread them so she can see her name jotted on the back of each, _Katie_ spelled in two different handwritings she recognizes instantly. Grew up seeing on paperwork and grocery lists and when her parents would teach her to write or help her with her homework.

"What are these?"

Her father swallows thickly. "They're, uh, letters," he says. "One's from your mom, I think from shortly before she passed away. I just found it in one of her books a few weeks ago. And the other's from me." He pauses, smooths his hands along his jacket. "I wrote it on the plane when I was coming back to New York…after you told me about your transplant."

"Oh." It's a breath, laced with apology when her gaze darts up to his, to the small smile on her face. "You want me to read them?"

He nods in response.

So she does, hesitating before taking her mother's envelope into her hands, tracing the neat penmanship spelling her name with the pad of her thumb. She pulls the envelope open slowly revealing the folded piece of paper within, scribbled with words like her mother had needed both sides of the page to say what she'd wanted to say.

Tears well in her eyes at the first words she reads, a simple greeting of _My dearest Katie_ that has her heart clenching, the distant sound of her mother's voice echoing through her head.

The first part of the letter is laced with explanations, with apologies. With _What I'm getting myself into might be dangerous_ and _I'm so sorry if this causes you any harm_ and _I promise it isn't my intention to lose you_. Nothing that could indicate who took them from her, just more reminders that she'd _known_ what she was getting into, how dangerous it could be, and chose it anyway.

Something Kate had never understood until she'd been lying on the ground of a cemetery with a bullet lodged in her chest.

It's when she reaches the next paragraph that her body goes numb, heart stilling its thundering, cracking under the weight of her emotions.

 _I hope you never have to read this letter, because if you do, it means this went as I fear it will. But know, Katie, that it breaks my heart to miss out on all the milestones you've yet to reach. I want to see you graduate from Stanford and become a lawyer like you've always dreamed, to see you find the love you deserve and start a family of your own if it's what you desire. But I know, no matter what happens to me, that it will be amazing, that you will be amazing no matter what life throws your way._

A whimper breaks free from her chest, tears rolling down her cheeks when she tries to blink them away. And though she forces herself to read the rest of the letter, all the things her mom chose to explain and apologize and wish for, it's those words that echo in her mind. Promises that she'd be amazing, as a lawyer, in a relationship, as a _mother,_ from the woman she'd lost far too soon. The mother she needs by her side through all of this but can't have.

The letter falls from her fingers, flutters back to her lap as she wipes at the the tears rolling down her cheeks, shakes her head at her father.

"That's not…that was before," she whispers, not even sure if he'd read the letter, if he knew he was handing her promises about her future skills as a mother. "That was before we lost her, Dad. Before I became a cop and got myself shot and–"

"And nothing has changed," he says. "Not with regards to what kind of mother you'll be, Katie."

She shakes her head again, biting her lip to keep a whimper at bay. " _Everything_ changed."

He sighs quietly, smooths the sheet on her bed before sitting down. He doesn't reach out to touch her, just draws her attention with his words when he speaks. "If anything, you've learned the importance of having a mother, which will make you a better mother to your son, Katie," he promises. "But if you don't believe that, my letter was written after we'd lost her."

She finds herself hesitating again, but she reaches for that envelope, too, opens it just as she had the last one. This letter is shorter, written in shakier handwriting revealing the fear he'd felt as he'd returned to the States, to a daughter who almost died and didn't tell him.

It only takes her a second of skimming shaky, rambly sentences laced with heartbreaking emotion for her to find the passage he probably wants her to see. The smear of words that touches on the very fears that keep her mind racing and heart fearful for what's yet to come.

 _It terrifies me to think of all that I could have lost without ever knowing it was such a risk, like the opportunity to truly make amends, to see you fall in love, Katie. God, to see you have a family of your own like your mother always dreamed of. To think that this world could have lost such an amazing person with incredible potential to make this world a better place, be it as a cop, or in a relationship, or as a mother. You have no idea how much I want that for you, how much I hope that this improbable happiness you found in the hospital will give you the opportunities you almost lost._

"Dad," she breathes, the single syllable cracking from the tip of her tongue.

His smile is sad when she looks up at him, but laced with hope, with knowledge when he reaches out for her at last, forces the letter to fall from her grip when he takes her hand.

"And here you are," he says. "You're going to be amazing, Katie. Your mother and I never doubted that."

* * *

She's reading over her mother's letter for the third time when Rick returns, a new box of tissues in hand and a tentative smile on his face. Her father had just left, probably run into her husband in the halls, and Rick takes up the spot he just vacated, sinking onto the bed, reaching for her without a second's hesitation.

"How are you feeling?" he whispers, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to her temple, to her cheek where he smears a tear that's still rolling down her face.

"Like I miss her," she says. "I wish she could be here to tell me all these things herself, to meet him when he gets here."

He kisses her again, pressing his lips to her cheek as she folds the letter, slips it back into its envelope as she turns to face her husband instead. To accept his kiss, the soft comfort, tender love he spills into it as he reaches for her hand, squeezes her fingers in a silent show of support.

"I know." He pulls away slowly.

"But, thank you," she adds. "For telling my dad, causing _this_. I really needed to hear it from him, from _them_." Her gaze falls, tears welling again, as quick as the emotion, the pain and longing pressing hard against the cage of her ribs, wrapping around her heart and squeezing hard. "It feels like she's…a little closer to us now."

His hand tightens around hers again, lifts it from the space between them so he can dust his lips to her knuckles. "I'm glad," he says, drawing her gaze up so she can catch his smile. "I have something else for you that might make her feel just a little closer."

Her eyes widen at that, and she watches as he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small velvet box that has her breath hitching, heart stuttering for all the right reasons. Tears returning to her eyes, hormone and love and longing induced all at once and she's wiping them away in a second, laughing at herself when she looks up to catch his smile.

"I thought _five_ golden rings might be a little extravagant for your taste, but one seemed okay."

He's already slid two rings onto her finger, the first one a promise of forever before they knew if that would even be a year, the second as a vow for that same thing, when everything seemed so much more _possible_ than it had before.

This one is still hidden from her view, but the box is familiar from the same place he'd gotten her engagement ring.

"Rick," she breathes, a choked sound that has both their smiles growing wider. "You're going to make me cry again, aren't you?"

He hums. "Maybe. Open and see."

She takes the ring box from him with fingers shaking and clumsy as she cradles it in one palm, presses her thumb against the side of it only to hesitate before opening it. When she does, it's to reveal a band of white gold that matches her wedding band, five gems inset within it, simple and beautiful, an array of colors that's familiar before he rushes to explain.

"The purple ones are amethysts, your mother's birthstone," he says. "And the yellow ones are citrines, your birthstone. And then the blue one is the December birthstone." He pauses, like he's waiting for her reaction, swallows thickly before continuing. "I called to get it changed when it looked like they'd have to deliver, but we can change if— _when_ —our little guy holds on until January."

She nods slowly, tearing her gaze away from the ring still cradled in her palm. But the panic she'd expected to rattle her system, steal her breath, at the implication that their son would be born car to early doesn't come. Not beyond an uncomfortable twist in her gut, a clench of her hand around the velvet ring box.

"I wanted to honor her, as your mom, and you, as his."

The tears return, unable to be forced back, her hand shaking as he reaches into the ring box. pluckes the ring from it's pillow, holds it between his thumb and forefinger. She holds her right hand out to him, allows him to slip the ring onto her finger, his thumb drifting over the row of colorful gems there.

"Five gems for the fifth day of Christmas," he whispers, smiling as he reaches up with his free hand to wipe at her tears _again_. "Or, make that six."

Her brows furrow, voice quivering when she speaks. "Six?"

He presses a kiss to her cheek in response, whispers his response against the shell of her ear. "You."

She elbows him for that, laughter spilling from her lips, tears still welling in her eyes. "You're a dork," she says, turning to catch his gaze. "But thank you, so much. For today." For all of it, giving her a distraction and leading her father to reassure her and slipping this ring onto her finger, staring at her like she hung the stars, no matter her own doubts. "I love you."

He kisses her again at that, breathes his _I love you, too_ past her lips as he holds her close, presents her with everything her parents apparently always wanted her to have.

A love like no other and a family of her own. Amazing.

* * *

 **Thank you all so much for your kindness, support and well wishes. I'm so glad people aren't too upset with me for missing a day, and am incredibly grateful for all who choose to read this story. And, as always, immense thanks also goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	19. Chapter 19

_**December 19th**_

* * *

The pain comes in the middle of the night, tearing her from sleep with sharp spasms in her abdomen. It forces a whimper from her throat before she's even conscious enough to process it, has her hands flying to her belly, smoothing over aching muscles. Her eyes squeeze shut against it, forcing tears from their corners that stumble down their cheeks in messy streaks she wants to wipe away but can't bring herself to.

The fear comes next, a strong, agonizing pressure within that has her crying even more, a whine slipping from her chest for reasons beyond the pain still splicing through her abdomen. Has her hand falling from her stomach, shaking as she reaches beside her, slaps at where Rick is sleeping in the chair at the bedside to wake him.

He does, sitting up mumbling in incoherent confusion. She hears his feet hit the floor, his arm swipe across what she assumes is his face before he reaches for her, takes her hand in his. Clumsy movements have his thumb sweeping across her knuckles, his body lifting so she can feel him hovering over her.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

She frowns, forces her eyes open against the pain, the terror. "Hurts."

His responding nod is quick, his hand still clutching at hers when he reaches over the swell of her stomach to press the button to call the nurse. Seconds tick by, her eyes stay open and locked on his as he mouths reassuring promises into the silence. And the pain fades, her brain reminding her that it never hurt all that bad to begin with, that she's experienced far worse.

That the sudden crash of panic through her system probably made it all seem worse.

Nurses appear in a blur, asking what's wrong and checking the monitors and her pulse and feeling at her abdomen as they wait for the doctor to show up. To examine her more closely with concern shining in her eyes, the doctor who isn't her usual OB seemingly familiar with her case as she promises her heart seems fine, her blood pressure is still within normal ranges. As she examines the diagrams spit out by whirring machines at her side, does a physical exam and looks up, a little less concerned.

Braxton Hicks, she calls it. The most likely scenario, although preterm labor cannot yet be completely ruled out. And with promises to monitor her closely for the time to come, they slip back into the brightness of hospital hallways.

Rick is still clutching at her hand when the doors slip closed, pushes himself back onto his feet to paint her forehead with kisses. "You should get some more sleep," he whispers, a breath against her skin, punctuated with another press of his lips.

"Can't," she chokes out, voice just as soft, hand clenched tight around his, the other still pressed to her belly.

"Pain?"

She shakes her head, eyes fluttering closed when he pulls away to look at her. "Too scared," she says. Of the pain, the implications, the minute possibility that this _isn't_ Braxton Hicks but actual labor, her body deciding that if rocketing her blood pressure didn't work, it would simply have to deliver her son weeks too soon.

His responding can be felt against her temple, his silence drawing her eyes open to lock on his when he pulls back to look at her again. "Want a distraction?"

He's slipping away before she answers, fingers disentangling themselves from hers as he sinks to the ground, the bag of his things that sits there, stands back up with two gift boxes clutched in his hands. Wrapped in cartoony green paper covered in a pattern of geometric Christmas trees, topped with red ribbons, bright like the holidays despite the curtain of darkness outside her window, in her mind as she attempts to avoid spiralling back into the world of what ifs.

He sets the first one between her hand, on her belly, the weight of it sinking into her grasp, making her brows furrow.

"There's four more, but I figured two would suffice more now," he says. "And be careful, they're fragile."

That's enough to have her popping the bow from the top of the box, pressing it to his forehead so the sight, and his smile, can draw laughter from beneath the swirl of fear within. She tears at the gift, crumpled balls of paper rolling off her belly to rest in the valley between her legs.

The box tells her what's inside before she tugs that open too, but with slices of her nail through pieces of tape, she frees the contents, lifts it from its bed of styrofoam to cradle it in her hands.

A ball of glass enclosing a miniature lighthouse, a base painted in ocean blue and grey stones, a shake of the globe making snow flutter over the scene, and the word printed across the bottom telling her what it represents.

"Connecticut?"

He hums in affirmative. "It's one of the first places we went together, for the Storm Falls book tour," he reminds her. "We went to the aquarium, remember? You were so enraptured by the displays, so beautiful. But you _hated_ the jellyfish."

She turns to him, tearing her gaze from the globe in her hand to glare. "They're weird."

"They're awesome."

Her chuckles dies in her throat, comes out as a strangled puff of air as she turns her attention to the second box. Rick takes the first snow globe from her hand, sets it on the window sill where it gleams in the nightlight that is New York City, allowing her to reach for the second gift.

There are less questions, less confusion as she tears this one open, fully aware of his trend, of similar gifts for each day that loosen knots in her body and soothe the aches of her heart, calm the rush of her mind with their simplicity, their meaning, the love poured into each one.

The second snow globe is a city, buildings standing tall, the base painted with water and boats and her teeth catch at her lip before she reads of the location it represents.

"And Boston."

"Another one of our first trips." Another stop on the book tour that made up the only trips, beyond his house in the Hamptons, that they've managed to take together in the past nineteen months. "We had a whole city to explore, but we went for a hike instead. And we were both still recovering, so when we had to take a break, we just sat against some random tree on the edge of the path, side by side and catching our breaths and all too sappy for being in public."

Her cheeks burn red at the memory, of how, in the depths of their post-engagement glow, she'd let him draw her into his arms, hold her close and kiss her over and over against under the shade of trees. How they'd snacked and giggled and kissed until she'd pushed herself to her feet, drawn him with her and continued their hike.

The pain is still coming and going in her abdomen, making her shoulders tense and body ache and mind run wild, but he's managed to calm her a bit. So when the pain subsides once more, she leans over, presses her lips to his, hopes he can feel the gratitude she spills into the kiss.

* * *

She sinks into the wheelchair with foreign, perhaps misguided excitement bubbling in her stomach, anticipation of escaping these walls, seeing something beyond two rooms and the hallway outside her door. And though the seat is uncomfortable, forcing her back stark straight and her body to adjust to moving without her control, she finds herself smiling when Rick squeezes her shoulder, ensures she's okay, and starts pushing her from her hospital room.

Dr. Fields had shown up shortly after the sun started gleaming off the city, arriving at her hospital room with a smile and questions about what had happened in the middle of the night. Had examined her and felt at her stomach and checked the monitor's data on Kate and the baby before agreeing with the original doctor's assessment of Braxton Hicks.

Her advice had been to move around, change positions, sceneries, as much as her bed rest would allow, and Rick had been quick to suggest they leave her hospital room for a short while.

He pushes through the halls slowly, past smiling and stressed nurses and doctors jotting down on charts, doors cracked open to allow views of happy families with their new babies and closed but barely muffling the pained sounds of women in labor. And when he leads her past a nurse pushing a baby boy swaddled in blue in a bassinet, he leans down, presses a kiss to the top of Kate's head, whispers against the shell of her ear.

"Soon enough."

It will be their little boy seeing his first glimpses of the word in these very halls, white walls and artificial lights drawing foggy eyes open and needy cries from within him. Beginning his life with something simple, in the same place that brought his parents together, saved all of their lives.

She nods in agreement, even though he's long since pushed her past the nurse and baby, the bob of her head ending when he slaps his hand against a button on the wall and the doors leading to the maternity ward swing open. Beyond them lies a common area, a center that jets off into various parts of the hospital, with walls of windows that show glimpses of the outside world to those trapped within.

Rick wheels her up to the window, and though the view is familiar to that from her own room, she finds it feels new with the bustle of life around her, muffled conversation a constant buzz in her peripheral.

"It feels weird being a wheelchair like this, again," she tells him, turning to glance over her shoulder, catch the bittersweet smile spread across his face.

His hand tightens on her shoulder again. "I know, but it's temporary." He shifts slowly, releasing her wheelchair, reaching for a nearby seat instead, drawing it forward so he can sit at her side. His hand lands on her stomach, caresses the skin beneath her thin hospital gown. "How's the pain?"

"Passing, I think." Her hand falls to rest over his, fingers sliding into the gaps between his. "He's kicking now."

Rick hums quietly, smile growing ever so slightly. "I know. I can feel it," he says. "He must be missing the outside world."

"Just like his mom."

His gaze flicks up to hers at that, eyes gleaming with regret for her limitations only for it to fade, be replaced with tentative hope. "I can try to give you a piece of it," he says. "Memories, at least."

She's barely nodded her desire that he share before he's pushing himself up from his seat, rushing away only to return a few minutes later with one of the gift bags from the other day in one hand. He returns to his seat, props it up on his thigh and reaches inside to pull out a third box, one that matches the first two perfectly, and holds it out to her.

He stuffs the trash into the gift bag as she unwraps it, watching intently until she's pulling out a snow globe with a moose enclosed within it, under a rain of fake snow. The base is painted in stones and trees and blue of sky, block letters spelling out the location it's meant to represent.

"Vermont," she states.

He nods. "There's a distinct lack of snow globes for Vermont," he says, "but this one reminded me of the lake we went to, the trail we biked along. We took breaks then, too, and you were _adorable_ in that helmet."

She slaps at his shoulder at the words, a slow smile spreading across her face at the memory of him cradling her face in his hands, fingers slipping beneath the straps of her helmet as he'd pulled her onto her toes to kiss her.

He takes the snow globe from her hand as she's thinking, sets the other one between her palms. She tears the paper from that one, too, lifting it from the box so she can see the buildings standing tall within it, a base painted with a skyline and the Liberty Bell, with another indication of where it represents.

"And Philadelphia."

He nods, reaching over to trace the bell with the pad of his thumb. "We went to see the Liberty Bell while we were there," he says, the words drawing a vivid memory of leaning into him, admiring the sight along with all that surrounded them. "And we went to the art museum, which you enjoyed far more than I ever imagined you would."

She nods, leaning over to let her head fall against his, an image of affection that must mirror that they'd created over their travels.

"You're amazing, you know?" he continues. "I've never seen anyone admire the world like you do."

His gaze shifts to the window, the world lying beyond the glass, and hers follows, traces the straight lines of metal and cement that surround them, of the city she's always loved.

"I hope our son inherits that from you."

* * *

Once the pain subsides and she returns to her room, they end up curled up in her hospital bed together, her head resting on his shoulder and baby bump pressed to his side as they watch some sappy movie on TV. His arms are banded around her, and every time a particularly sweet moment would appear on screen, he tightens his grip on her, presses his lips to her forehead.

It's only when the credits are rolling down the screen that he speaks the words she'd felt welling in his chest for the entirety of the film, mumbles them against the crown of her head as a smile blooms across her face.

"Our story is far better than that one."

She hums, presses the sound to his shoulder. "The sharing a hospital room and almost dying, only for me to survive because you literally gave me your heart?" she says. "It already sounds like a sappy romantic drama."

"I'm glad it isn't, though."

That has her brow furrowing, head lifting so she can catch his gaze, let him see the questions swirling in her eyes. He's the one who loves sharing their story with friends and family, smoothing a hand over his chest as he tells the tale of his heroism while presenting her as the star of their personal fairytale. Demonstrating with flashes of their rings or announcements of her pregnancy that they got the happy ending she thinks they deserved.

"I like having it between us and those who care about us," he explains. "Makes it feel more…personal. More true to life."

She nods, leaning down to give him a quick kiss before he's pushing her away, grinning wide.

"Speaking of our love story," is all he says before he's pulling away, straining his back to reach the floor, lift two more gift boxes from the bag that sits there. He sets them down in the space between them, allowing her to grab one, lift it to her chest, so he can adjust the other and sink back onto the mattress.

She shreds the wrapping paper this time, resting it on his chest next to the bow she'd pressed to where the fabric of his shirt is pulled over the scar from his transplant.

The box lands somewhere on the floor when she tosses it aside, cradles the globe in her hands instead. Feels the weight of it against her palms as she examines the lighthouses standing tall within it, surrounded by small buildings and foliage painted with snow to match that fluttering behind the glass. The base is painted to match the ocean, bright blue and stained in the letters of the state it represents.

"New Jersey?"

His hum matches that which rumbles from him when he eats something he likes. "The first time I saw you in a swimsuit," he says, making her reach over and slap his chest, her head falling to rest on the round of his shoulder to hide her blush. "No, but seriously, it was the first time we went to the beach together. And it was fun, to be so carefree, to forget the pain of recovery and just enjoy ourselves like that."

"It was," she agrees, hiding her smile in his shirt. "I love being in the water with you."

She feels him turn his head, smudge his smile against the top of her head lip a promise that he feels the same, enjoys the buoyancy of sea around them as much as she does. The weightless feeling of getting lost in the sway of waves, in the warmth of his arms around her.

"What's the last one?"

He takes the snow globe from her carefully, setting it on the nightstand of sorts by her bed as he hands her the final box. The last of her non-six-geese-a-laying, wrapped in the same paper as all the other, topped with a bow that ends up pressed to his chest, over his heart, as paper is tossed aimlessly into the trashcan behind her.

The final snow globe is all too familiar, a representation of the city that stands tall and proud just outside her window. A replica of the Chrysler building and the Empire State building standing within it, joined by the pale green of the Statue of Liberty, surrounded by buildings far smaller to represent the less well known parts of Manhattan.

She doesn't look at the base before staring up at him, catching his grin as he stares down at her.

"I know it isn't technically somewhere we've traveled together, given that we live here and all," he says, "but it _is_ where I fell in love with you. Where we met, where we survived, where we fell in love and got engaged and got married, and now where our little boy is going to be born."

She hums, pressing against his chest to lift herself from the mattress, to hover over him, let him see the joy behind her smile. "I'd say it's the most important one, then."

The kiss she presses to his mouth is slow, has him skimming a hand up her spine to cradle the back of her skull, hold her close even after she pulls away.

"I want to travel more with you," she tells him. "See more of the States, and the world, to show him the world."

"Yeah?"

She nods, presses her head back against his hand to feel his fingers knot in her hair, bring her back down to kiss him again. "But I always want to come back here," she adds, a mumble against his lips. "To show our son where our story developed, keep growing together."

He's grinning when she pulls away a little farther, body still pressed to his, gazes locking in the inches between his face and hers.

"I think that's a perfect idea," he says.

So she kisses him again.

* * *

 **As always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	20. Chapter 20

_**December 20th**_

* * *

Last year, as soon as December had swept over the city with cold breezes and flurries of snow, storefronts decorated for the holidays and an air to it unlike New York over the course of the rest of the year, he'd started telling her of his traditions. He had wrapped her in his arms one night, both of them tangled in a soft, fluffy blanket, snuggled up on the couch, when he'd whispered of them for the first time, distracting her from the movie they'd been watching with words that he didn't know sent splices of fear through her.

One of the traditions he'd told her about had been this, a hint of longing in his voice as his fingers had spanned the lattice of her rib cage, pointedly avoiding the then-flat plane of her stomach as he'd explained. His words had been pressed to the side of her head, an invitation lilting his voice, and he'd told her about the toys he donated, the time he volunteered in the pediatric department of the very hospital that had saved their lives.

He still hadn't known of her own makeshift traditions, the way mourning and heartbreak had ruined the holidays for her, when she'd declined his unspoken invitation with work as her excuse.

But this year, she sits in a wheelchair, the only adult patient present in the pediatric department, hands folded over her stomach, feeling the movements of her son like a reaction to the bustle of life around them. Children play in the common area, sharing toys and maneuvering around injuries, casts, oxygen tanks, IV poles and wheelchairs. A picture of fun in the midst of a building where no such thing should exist.

Where illness casts a dreary shadow over the lives of all, those undergoing simple procedures or faced with superficial injuries and those fighting to keep their hearts beating alike. A dreary shadow lost only to the brightly colored walls, the fun-fueled laughter and amicable nurses dressed in colorful Christmas scrubs of this department.

She imagines that it's not so hopeful, so optimistically happy beyond the common area, where children too ill to participate are trapped in the prison of their hospital rooms, but she forces those thoughts from her mind. Focuses instead on the hint of joy present here and now, the continued movements of her son in her stomach.

Rick had situated her wheelchair next to a row of supervising parents, to a woman with a gaze locked intently on a young girl draped in a too-big yellow hospital gown, hauling around an oxygen tank. And then he'd disappeared to talk to the nurses with nothing but a quick kiss to her head and a promise that he was just going to help set up for Santa's visit before reading for the children.

Her teeth catch at her lip as she watches the children play, images flashing in her mind on a day when her own little boy will play like these children do. Hopefully not trapped in a hospital and limited by injury or illness, but still a beacon of light in whatever stresses life threw their way, optimistic and loving like his father even in the worst circumstances.

But she's torn from her thoughts by a flurry of movement at her side, the patter of small footsteps and words spoken in a soothing tone as the woman at her side lifts from her seat, reaches for the little girl she'd been watching, who's now coming towards her.

"Mommy," she whimpers, "I gotta sit."

Kate watches as the woman sweeps the little girl into her arms, cradles her to her chest after adjusting the cannula in her nose before flattening a hand to the little girl's chest. And when she goes to look away, the little girl is staring at her.

"Hi," says the girl.

Kate musters a smile in response. "Hi. What's your name?"

"Isabelle," she answers. "What 'bout you?"

"I'm Kate." Her hands skim over her baby bump, nervous energy making her fidget with the fabric of her gown as she scrambles for something to say.

Kids have never been her expertise. Hopefully that will change with her son.

But the girl— _Isabelle—_ fills the silence for her. "Are you sick, too?"

The _too_ tacked onto the end of the sentence, so helpless and matter-of-fact, breaks her heart, makes smiling more difficult even though Isabelle's smiling back at her. "Just a little bit," she says. "The doctors are worried that my baby will be too small when he comes out, so they're trying to keep him in there as long as possible."

Isabelle's smile cracks wider at that. "I was too small when I came out!"

She says it like it's something to be proud of, a link between herself and Kate's unborn son that has dreary eyes lighting up, oblivious to all that it means. To the panic flickering across her mother's face as she clenches at her daughter's wrist like she's tracking the girl's pulse.

"But that's not why I'm here now," she adds.

Kate forces a hint of happiness to come out, mingle with the surprise she manages to taint her own voice with when she speaks. "Why are you here now?"

Isabelle sinks back, deeper into her mother's arms as her smile falters, her hand presses to her chest over where her mother's had been. "I need a new heart," she says, still so simple, like it's _nothing_. "The doctors are trying to find me one."

She feels her breath stutter at the words, at the smile on this little girl's face. Either oblivion or acceptance, or hope, or faith that all will be okay keeping Isabelle happy in the face of possibly dying so young, of coping with what must be a serious illness, a painful one if she's trapped within hospital walls as she waits.

But her forced smile remains, the image of Isabelle's eyes lighting up at the link between herself and the baby spurring the next words that tumble from her lips. "You know what? A couple years ago, I needed a new heart, too."

Isabelle's mother's eyes go wide, snapping to Kate's chest, and she takes the cue to tug the neckline of her shirt just enough to a sliver of the faded scar marring her chest. The little girl perks up at that, pushing herself to sit up straight in her mother's lap.

"You did?" she breathes. "Was it scary?"

"A little bit," answers Kate, half honestly. "But you know what? The doctors do their very best to take care of people like us, so they make it a little less scary."

Isabelle nods. "Sometimes when I play too much, my heart beats too fast. The doctors said I have to sit down when that happens. _That's_ scary."

Kate nods, her smile morphing from feigned glee to a genuine attempt at reassurance as she reaches out hesitantly, searching Isabelle's mother's face for permission before setting her hand on the girl's shin.

"It is," she confirms. "But you know what always helped me when I was sick?"

"What?"

She motions with a quick jerk of her head to where Rick is walking into the room, a Santa hat situated on his head and a book in hand. He walks over to where the nurses have pulled out a chair for him, drops onto the seat and spreads the book across his thighs, clearing his throat loudly to get the children's attention.

Her next words are spoken as a whisper, like a secret between herself, Isabelle and her mother. "Listening to my husband, Rick, tell stories," she says, motioning to where he sits. "And look, he's ready to tell you one, too."

Isabelle perks up again, wiggling on her mother's lap so she can turn to face Kate, a smile on her face at the prospect of feeling better at the flow of words through the room.

And Rick begins his story.

" _Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse._ "

* * *

Returning to her room is bittersweet, familiarity and calm sinking over them as heavily as that dark cloud of the hospital broken only in the rooms of happy women with healthy new babies and of children healthy enough to play and enjoy life within the limits of a hospital. Neither of which is the room of white walls with a single haunting, powder pink one, no matter the Christmas tree and piles of gifts he's given her and juvenile drawing and Christmas countdown on her whiteboard.

But she lets Rick escort her back, fatigue drawing at her system after a few hours of being social, of playing with him and the children of pediatric ward while staying confined to her wheelchair. He helps her from her seat, adjusts the pillows and blankets until she's comfortable in her hospital bed, before sitting down next to her, hand resting on her knee.

"Thank you," he says, the words a breath as he leans forward, presses them to her forehead. "I'm glad you came with me this year."

"Me too," she admits, hand falling from her baby bump to rest over his. "I like watching you play with kids, and read to them. It reminds me of how you read to him." Her gaze falls to her baby bump, fingers dragging his to press to the round of her stomach. "I think he liked it, too."

"Oh, yeah?"

She hums to affirmative, her smile spreading wider across her face. "Yeah," she confirms. "He was kicking up a storm."

Rick gasps, pressing his hand hard to her belly as he leans down, speaks to both her and the baby nestled within. "Buddy, you're supposed to calm down when I'm reading, not practicing for your future soccer career."

Laughter tumbles from her lips ata that, hand tightening around his. "Not during the reading, babe. He was calm during that," she says. "He liked it when we were playing with the kids, I think. He seemed all excited."

"Ah. Well, he seems calm now."

She nods. "He is. Probably needed a nap after all that rolling around it there."

His smile has only widened when she looks back up at him, eyes alight with love that's grown more and more evident of the course of their relationship. Amazement that she can't help but think burns in his gaze because of her decision to join him despite her illness, her limitations, her fears. That she had fun, didn't get scared into never returning to his holiday tradition of having fun with the kids, providing them another light in the difficulties of their lives.

"I have something for you," he says, squeezing her hand before pulling away, untangling himself from her in the process. "Not that it'll be very useful now, but it ties in with today."

He stands slowly, leaning down to swipe something from his bag by the side of the bed. A heavy looking gift, a bundle of something only he knows wrapped in white paper painted with varying Christmas trees of bright colors, topped with a green bow. And before he situates himself on the bed again, she's reaching for it, lifting the weight of it towards her as he watches intently, drops back to sit on her bed with her.

"Can I open it?"

His response is a nod, silent and enough to have her plucking the bow from the gift and tossing it aside, tearing at the paper to reveal a pile of books with brightly colored covers and spines, cartoon images printed across them. They're held together with a red ribbon tied in a bow, matching in size and shape, the title of the top one covered but the image atop it betraying it all the same.

" _The Cat in the Hat_?" she says, looking up at him as her fingers pluck at the bow, sends it unfurling in her hands.

He just nods again, allowing her to lift the first book from the top of the pile and set it aside, examine and identify the other six stories he'd given her as her non-seven-swans-a-swimming. To smile at the orange cover of _Green Eggs and Ham_ and the yellow one of _One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish._ To trace the swirls on the cover of _Oh, The Places You'll Go_ and the cottony trees of _The Lorax._ To recognize the contrast of red and green on the cover of _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ and of orange and blue of _Horton Hears a Who._

She lines them out before her, a series of Dr. Seuss' most beloved tales, of poetry for children that will one day spark creativity in their son's eyes, of pattern recognition and rhythm and rhymes.

"You got him books," she breathes, turning her gaze from the rainbow of colors to her husband.

He smiles at her, shrugs one shoulder. "I want him to love reading as much as we do."

"He will. He already does," she says, swiping one of the books, _Green Eggs and Ham_ , from the bed and hands it to her husband. "Can you read to him?"

Rick smiles wider, adjusting himself on the bed so his head is resting against her thigh, face close to the swell of her baby bump, to their son. "I thought he was already calm?"

She reaches down, combs her fingers through his hair. "Then read to me."

* * *

She watches nighttime fall outside her window, some buildings going dark and others lighting up, the sky fading to black until the ground lights it up from below. The city alive on the streets below, up and hidden away in Manhattan's tallest buildings. Noise drowned by distance and various realities branching off into different moments as people go about their lives in whatever way they choose.

The hospital goes dead at night, people sinking into sleep after a long day of boredom, but the maternity ward remains a constant cycle of consciousness as new lives enter the world and babies learn how to go about living theirs. As new parents feel a shift in their universe and nurses check on women in labor and Kate lies awake, staring out her window at a world she longs to return to, to introduce her son to.

It's not pain that keeps her awake, not the numbers of her blood pressure causing the new breed of panic welling within her chest. Nor do the soft sounds of her husband's breathing or light sensation of her son stirring in her womb do their usual job of calming her down.

And after a while of lying there in boredom, lost in the swirling, drowning sea of her thoughts, she reaches over, nudges at Rick's shoulder with the back of her hand to draw him into wakefulness with her.

He startles at first, until she's smoothing her hand over his chest, whispering into the silence that it's okay, for him to calm down, that she just wants to talk. His eyelashes flutter against the darkness, eyes undoubtedly adjusting as he turns towards her, his hand reaching up to cradle hers.

"You okay?" he whispers, voice raspy with sleep.

She nods, smoothing a hand over her baby bump like silent reassurance he can't see when his gaze is locked on her face. "Yeah," she says. "I just…can't sleep."

"Oh." He falls silent with that, still for a second before forcing himself to sit up in the chair that he turns into a bed every night. His hand curls around hers, holding tight as he catches her gaze in the darkness, offers a comforting quirk of his lip. "That brain of yours running wild again?"

Her response is sheepish, eyes falling from his as she speaks. "Little bit, yeah."

"Anything you want to talk about?"

She swallows at the question, nods slowly before adjusting herself in the bed. Still curled up on her side, she props her elbow up on the mattress, rests her cheek against her palm. "Do you mind?" she says, feeling him squeeze her hand in response, a silent _no_ and _go ahead_ spoken in the action. "I met this little girl today, when we were on peds."

"Yeah."

"And she must have been…six, _maybe_ seven," she continues. "She's waiting for a heart transplant."

His hand tightens around hers at that, squeezing impossibly hard, for her benefit and for his own. To free himself from the swirl of memories she knows haunts him at such mentions, of watching her flatline and wanting so desperately to save her, the emotions he's tried and failed to share with her of the time spent knowing he would get a heart but she might not.

To free her of the same memories that don't pain her nearly as much, beyond gratitude for her chance at life that she wasn't supposed to have.

"She could die, Rick," she continues. "And she's so young, but she's still smiling through it, like she doesn't know, and maybe she doesn't. But I just…she looks so optimistic that everything will be okay and her situation is so much worse than mine, than _his_." She motions to the baby, presses her hand against the top of her bump. "Is it terrible for me to be so worried about him when his situation is so much better than it could be?"

It's a whisper, laced with a waiver of insecurity that even she hears, that has him straightening in his seat and turning towards her, blue eyes wide, gleaming in the dark with worry, with love.

He clutches at her hand as he speaks, leaning forward to kiss her temple. "It is _not_ terrible," he tells her, adamant despite his tone, the breath of his whisper against the side of her face. "You're his mother, and these circumstances aren't normal, are far from ideal, and you're going to worry. You're _supposed_ to worry, no matter how much worse it could be."

She nods, but he's lifting from his spot, standing and crawling over the bed, silent as he lies down behind her, wraps his arms around her middle to hold her against him. One arm wedged between her head and the pillow, the other draped over her body so he can splay his hand over her belly. His touch warm, comforting like the kiss he presses to the side of her head.

"You'll always worry," he tells her. "It's normal. It's part of what makes you a good mother, Kate."

A breath heaves at her chest, eyes falling closed in relief, fatigue that has been lacing its way along her system finally starting to take hold as the guilt that had sent her mind spinning finally starts to quiet.

"You think so?"

"I know so," he answers, kissing her head again. "You love him so much, Kate. That's why you worry. And that will never change."

* * *

 **Whoa look two updates in one day. Mostly because I still want to post the Christmas Day chapter on Christmas Day so, here you go, two chapters in one day. As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for all her help and last minute betaing.**


	21. Chapter 21

_**December 21st**_

* * *

After two days of allowing her to escape the confines of her hospital room and the bed on which she sits, she almost hates that her only escape today was canceled in favor of bringing what she needed to her. In exchange for the torture of demanding of preparation only for it to all be worth it come the image of their son on the screen by her head. And the promise of seeing her little boy again after weeks of longing for a new picture of him.

And Rick must sense her disappointment, her longing for a life that better resembles their special breed of normalcy that has grown familiar over the last nineteen months. Because as soon as cloudy fatigue has faded from her mind, dissipated to what limited energy she's come to expect of her pregnancy, he's lighting up the room with a rainbow of lights, with the soft rhythm of Christmas music.

He pulls on the Santa hat he'd worn yesterday, smiling when he adjusts it so it's purposefully crooked. And reaches down to swipe a pair of reindeer antlers from his bag, reaches over to situate them on her head, tucking stray strands of hair that have fallen free of her braid behind her ears.

"I have a plan to assuage your boredom for the day," he tells her. "At least until your appointment."

"You do, huh?"

He nods, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before leaning back down to gather items he'd brought with him and pile them at the foot of her bed. Objects familiar from days spent shopping online in an attempt to get everything for their family despite her limitations, despite being stuck in the hospital. The books they'd bought for Alexis, the jewelry for his mother, the fishing supplies for her mother all gathered by the foot of the bed. Piled atop them, he sits rolls of wrapping paper and scotch tape and ribbon and bows.

"Gift wrapping?"

"Yup," he answers, throwing a quick smile over his shoulder. "But first."

Her brows furrow as he turns away again, his dramatic groans echoing through the room as he straightens his back, turns back towards her with three Christmas stockings hanging from his fingers.

They match, the three stocking, all red with snow at the bottom to create a makeshift scene to frame individual characters. The toes and tops are covered in a pattern of red, green and white stripes, the very top rolled over with droops to represent snow, where she imagines a name would be.

"These ones," he says with a jerk of one hand, motioning to the two stockings with Santa and Mrs. Claus on the front of them, "are mine and yours, and this one," he jerks his head towards the other hand, to a stocking with a bear all bundled up for winter on it, "is the baby's."

"You got us stockings _just_ for the hospital room?"

He rolls his eyes. " _No_ ," he huffs. "I got all ten in the set so everyone in our family could choose one and we could use them at home next year."

A smile tugs at the corners of her lips at that, giddy affection for her extravagantly sweet husband tamping the urge to roll her eyes at the gesture. Reaching forward, she takes one of the stockings from his hand, watching relief spread across his face as the weight of it falls from his finger into her palms.

"Follow up question, babe," she says, letting it fall to the bed below her as he does the same. "Why are they already stuffed?"

He lowers the other two stockings to the bed, too, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to her lips before answering. "Gotta get you your eight non-maids-a-milking," he says. "But two of them are just for show, because the actual gift didn't fit."

Laughter spills from her lips, is silenced by the press of his mouth before he's turning away one last time, retrieving three gift boxes and setting them before her. He takes the stocking from her hands, sets it aside only to replace it with the largest of the presents. It rests on her thighs, heavy against her, making her brow furrow.

His eyes flick between her at the box, silently telling her to open it, and she does, tearing at the paper to reveal a brown cardboard box he forces her to open. When she does, it's to a pair of bookends, heavy enough that he reaches past her hands, lifts it from the box for her and sets the pair on the mattress in front of her as he tosses aside the box.

They're shaped to match a suspension bridge, the metal made to look worn.

"For your office," he explains. "As long as you like them."

She nods, turning her gaze to him, the crease of insecurity between his brows. "I do. I love them," she promises, leaning forward to offer a reassuring kiss before sinking back against the pillow. "Stocking or boxes?"

"Stocking."

She reaches for it, the stocking that apparently belongs to her, stuffed with tissue paper and four small, lopsided wrapped gifts. They fit in her hand, allowing her to draw them out one by one before setting them between her crossed legs to see that two are bigger than the others, to find that with a simple cut of her nail, she can slice through the wrapping paper.

One by one, she unwraps them, tearing at the paper to reveal the matching set of gifts that has her breath stuttering, the sentiment behind them catching at her heart with every figurine she lays out before it.

It's four elephants, ceramic and stark white, two bigger than the others. She cradles a small one in her palms, gaze locked on it as, in her peripheral, Rick reaches over to grab one of the bigger ones.

"They're to represent our family," he says, drawing her gaze up to him. "The two bigger ones are us, and then the smaller ones are Alexis and the baby."

"It's perfect," she says, turning her gaze back to the elephant in her hands, sweeping her finger along the curve of its small trunk. "My mom loved elephants. She thought they represented family."

He's silent for a second, as though unsure how to respond, until he leans forward, presses a kiss to her forehead, mouths and _I love you_ against her hair. He reaches for the other two boxes when he pulls away, sets them in her lap as he draws the elephants away. A matching pair, identical in shape and wrapping alike.

"You can open them together," he says.

So she does, tearing away the paper on one box and the other before admiring either gift, taking in the images on the front of the box that are sure to make tears well in her eyes, love flood her system in that way only he's ever been able to cause.

When she does look at them both, matching boxes laid out before her, it sends her heart spinning, her breath escaping in a single stutter as the tears she'd predicted burn behind her eyes. He lifts from the mattress slowly, shifting so he's sitting right beside her, his arm looped around her shoulders, lips pressed to the side of her head.

He doesn't need to explain these.

The pair of figurines are beautiful, the design familiar, faceless figures in shades of brown and ivory.

The first one brings back memories of their wedding day. The image of a couple locked in a tight embrace, hands locked and touch tender, foreheads kissing as they dance, bringing back memories of how they'd swayed on the beach at the Hamptons house to quiet music and the beat of their hearts.

The second a promise of their future, a couple with arms locked around each other's backs cradling their baby between them, tender and sweet and _beautiful._

"Thank you," she chokes out, the words shaking with emotion, with tears she tries to blink away only to send the rolling down her cheeks.

He responds with the caress of her hand across her cheek, the turn of her head and the soft kiss he presses to her lips.

* * *

Her pulse is still a thundering beat in her throat as she watches Dr. Fields slip from the room. Her breath is caught in her chest, vision twisted with tears, the ultrasound picture pinched in her hands, and the door clicks shut, traps her in the confines of her room with the ace in her chest, the haunting whispers of her mind, the attempts at comfort from her husband, who lingers at her side.

His hand drifts over her stomach, wiping off the remnants of ultrasound gel with a towel, gentle caresses of his hand, massages of his fingers against her tight skin doing nothing to help her relax. To allow her to sink into the pillows, into the gentle oblivion of sleep where she could dream of a happy baby she'd carried to full term, a world where Rick is at her side and their son is in their arms but there's no scar on her chest or her husband's and everything is _normal._

She's long since grown to accept the physical evidence of her surgery, of the weakened, broken muscle they'd needed to remove from her body. Has stopped thinking of it, trying to hide it when it was unnecessary, letting her gaze linger on it in the mirror while her heart ached for the simple circular scar that she used to have.

It barely crosses her mind anymore, but right now, it pulls, a phantom burn alight across her skin, a reminder of the damage it represents. In the same way her baby bump is the physical evidence of her pregnancy, the scar is the most obvious remnant of her transplant and in the face of the doctor's news, it's the easiest to hate.

Her hand flattens against it, over the faded marr of her flesh, and Rick must grasp the implication because he tosses the towel aside, reaches up to curl his fingers tightly around hers instead.

"Hey, Kate," he says, a breath against her cheek as he pushes himself towards her. His free hand comes up, too, fingers a fluttering touch against her cheek, over the tracks of fallen tear. "Hey, hey, calm down. You heard Dr. Fields, this isn't that bad."

But she's shaking her head before he's even said it, the race of her heart pounding against her palm, a stuttering patter of regret that has her eyes squeezing shut against the reality he tries to remind her of.

"He's too small," she chokes out, head rolling against the pillow so she's facing him, eyes cracking open as tears catch at her lashes. "I can't do anything right for him."

That has Rick bounding from his seat, towering over her, his hands framing her jaw, tilting her head back so she's looking at him. Gentle and tender and certain all the same, matching the conviction in his words, the sympathy in his eyes. "You are doing _everything_ for him," he tells her. "You're doing your absolute best by him. Everything you do, Kate, you do with him in mind and this doesn't discount any of that."

She bites at her lip to hold back a quivering breath, eyes fluttering closed, the beat of her heart still erratic for all the reasons that don't send doctors racing into her room. Words a noisy echo in her head, a broken rhythm of overlapping syllables, none of which fall from her lips.

His touch gentles as the silence drags on, fingers tripping across her face in gentle touches as he wipes at her tears curls his hand at her nape. He doesn't say another word, either, as his hands drift from her face, along her frame, one grasping at her hip as the other loops around her waist.

Her body lifts from the bed just enough for him to free a few extra inches of space. For him to wedges himself between her body and the edge of the mattress, arm staying trapped under her body as the other drapes across her stomach, over the swell of her skin around their little boy.

Their _little_ boy.

"He's smaller than he should be," says Rick, pressing the words to the side of her head. "But you know what else Dr. Fields said? That his development is good, that he looks healthy, Kate, even if he needs to gain a little weight. He has time to do that."

She turns towards him, forehead knocking against his as she does so, their faces so close that her lashes could tangle with his, that she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. "What if he doesn't have that time?" she asks. "Dr. Fields said that an early delivery is still _likely_. What if he can't?"

His lips quirk upwards in reassurance at that, promises no one can make playing at the corners of his mouth. "Then he'll have to do it out here, and we'll help him."

It's inexplicable, the way it seems to loosen the knot in her chest, have her sagging against him. Her hand falls to join his on the round of her baby bump, over their son's movements that continue from within, oblivious of his struggles, of those waiting for him if he does enter the world a little too soon.

She stares down at her belly, watches their fingers lace as, with a tilt of his head, Rick presses a quick kiss to her forehead.

"None of this is your fault, Kate."

She nods, uncertainty still looping its way through her chest, a calmer pain that doesn't slice through her heart so much as cause a subtle ache. And Rick reaches between them, swipes the ultrasound photo from where it had fallen to hold it up to their faces, to show her the black and white image of their son.

"Besides, look at how perfect he is," he says. "He's even sucking his thumb."

* * *

She worries too much. That's what Dr. Fields says when she checks up on her one last time before the end of her shift, when her gaze lands with a worried darkness on the monitor behind her head, the numbers of her blood pressure that Kate and Rick had watched rise ever so slightly over the course of the afternoon.

But with a listen to her heart and a few deep breaths, Dr. Fields had decided it likely doesn't indicate any new problem, anything serious enough to capture everyone's attention right away. Her orders had been to try and stay calm, diminish stress as much as possible to they could gauge whether it was a failure of her body to respond to medication or a manifestation of emotion.

The door had closed from the visit long minutes ago, time ticking by in slow motion as she stares at the clock in a feeble attempt to ignore the crumble of her heart in her chest, the display of numbers by her bed.

"Kate."

She blinks, turns towards her husband at the sound of his voice, the thick, emotion rattled grate of words passed his throat that only worsens the crack in her heart. Does nothing to make her feel better when he sounds as scared as she feels, when his tone matches the whirlwind of nightmares in her mind.

"They warned us this would probably happen," she mumbles, turning her gaze from his to spare him the difficulty of looking at her. Of facing the wife whose body's too broken to support their little boy, to help him grow and keep him stable, barely able to keep itself stable under the pressure of pregnancy, of the lingering effects of her transplant.

The scar is pulling again, muscles of her abdomen tense when she tries to curl in on herself, lock the swell of her baby bump between her legs and her chest as though that would help keep Dr. Field's predictions from coming to fruition. Would lower her blood pressure of keep it from getting any higher, keep her son nestled within until he _should_ be born.

A seeming impossibility now.

Rick reaches over, combs his fingers through her hair, sweeping it away from her face, dragging it from the cementing moisture of her tears that tries to cling to them.

"It barely went up," he tells her. "It's _just_ outside of normal ranges, it's not even dangerous right now."

" _Now_ ," she says. "Doesn't mean it'll stay here."

Not with worry a heavier weight in her chest now, with her world spinning out of control and breaking her heart in the process, causing stress to her mind that barely compares to this afternoon's. That has her shaking and nervous, clinging to the numbers displayed on the monitor and begging them not to change, not to dare shift any higher.

Begging her body to keep responding to the medication, keep her healthy.

"What if it stopped working?"

"We'll cross that bridge if it comes," he answers, still combing his fingers through her hair, letting them drift along the column of her neck, to the locked muscle of her shoulder. "But you have to relax."

He rubs circles against her skin as he speaks, drawing her towards him with every press of his fingers to tense muscle until she's pressed against the side of the bed, clinging to the fabric of his shirt as though that'll help only to push him away. She forces herself to sit, tired muscles protesting the motion as she leans forward, her baby bump a barrier between her and the welcoming promise of the mattress under her body.

Rick takes the cue, standing, careful motions allowing him to slide his legs around her, frame her hips with his thighs and sink back against her pillows. His arms band around her middle, tug her against him slowly so her weight rests against his chest, his lips a constant press to the top of her head as a deep breath rattles her ribs, stutters from her lips.

"Relax," he repeats. "It'll be okay."

But it sounds like he believes it as little as she does.

* * *

 **As always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey for all her help.**


	22. Chapter 22

_**December 22nd**_

* * *

It's strange, how foreign the terror laced through her system, knotted through her ribcage, feels, given all they've been through. The months taking pills to diminish the ever-present possibility of rejection, the weeks before that spent trapped in a bed with a heart too broken to beat for the life she'd only been starting to imagine. Of facing statistics and knowing the risks, all that could go wrong with her health, with that of the man she loves. Clinging to a reality, a future, in which his lungs allowed him to breathe and her heart never stopped beating again.

She should be familiar with it, sitting in a hospital bed or facing a doctor with fear welling in her body, climbing like nausea up her throat. But still, it's a strange feeling, intense and heart shattering like she's never felt before, not when facing the imminent probability of her own death, the complications that could hurt the future she clings to now.

Not like she does now, faced not with the hopeful optimism in her doctor's eyes, but a worried flick between her body and the monitors displaying her vitals. Not with promises that things still look good, but that there's a possibility of things not getting worse, of her body clinging to an only slightly elevated blood pressure long enough to keep her son growing within a little longer.

Her husband is a pillar of strength beside her, his grip on her hand firm, his other arm draped over her shoulders in reassurance. They sit in silence for a few minutes, no words enough to change their reality, to assuage her fears, and her temple rests against his shoulder as she feels his body cave in defeat as he comes to the same conclusion.

Their baby isn't worse; he's still growing, his heartbeat still strong and healthy as though nothing is wrong with his mother, but he isn't better, either. He could still come early, suffer at the hands of her body's inability to carry him to term, to keep him inside until he's big enough, strong enough to face the outside world.

He could still live with permanent illnesses, or– or _die_ at the hands of her body.

"Don't freak out," says Rick, the words pressed to the side of her head as he leans forward, smudges kisses to her temple.

She scoffs, actually forces the breath from her chest if only to end the painful stillness of her ribs. "How am I supposed to not freak out?" she argues. "You heard her. Dr. Davidson has to check me _again_ , and if my blood pressure doesn't go down, he might decide to deliver."

He presses another soft kiss to her hairline, arms tightening around her with every word she speaks. Reassurance unspoken because words would be lies and that knowledge aches as much as their new reality.

She's always turned to his words to fix things, but this time…she can't.

After a moment, he stands slowly, his back popping, and she manages a weak smile at his exaggerated groan. "We're going to not-panic with a distraction," he says, a boisterous announcement that would be convincing if not for the waver in his voice at the word _panic_. As though the fear is welling within him as much as it crushes her, breaking his heart like it shatters hers. "And I have the perfect idea for that."

She just watches as he leans down, swipes something from the ground, straightens again with three wrapped packages.

"What did you do?"

His smile widens, growing genuine as he hands her the gifts, allows her to take them, settle them on the swell of her baby bump. "I got you your nine non-ladies-dancing," he says. "Those are just the first three."

Her nod is thoughtful, gaze drifting between him and the gifts he'd given her. She only wastes a second on unspoken curiosity before reaching for the first, tearing the strips of paper away to reveal the colorful cover of a children's movie, familiar text staring back at her.

" _Finding Nemo_?"

He hums, doesn't speak, simply motions to the other two. So she unwraps them both, too, smiling when more cartoon images come into view, characters familiar and loved storylines flashing through her mind at each one. Memories of long weeks of recovery spent curled up with her husband watching the flashing colors of children's movies to draw amused laughter and warm joy from them both in the dreadful fear of hospital life.

The other two movies are _Kung Fu Panda_ and _Tinkerbell_ , and she lays them out on the bed before her, turning her gaze to him for an explanation.

"I got us some of our favorite children's movies," he says in explanation, eyes bright with hope that it will help now as it had before. "The ones we'll end up watching over and over again when he's a little older."

Her hand lands on her stomach at her words, images of her son trying to make something from junk or fight kung fu flashing in her mind, far too happy for the news they'd just received, but there all the same.

Kate rolls her eyes,at her lovable dork of a husband, at herself, but her smile turns sincere nonetheless. The other six movies remain a mystery, surely wrapped and hidden away in his bag to match the first three, but she doesn't bother asking. Knows he must have a plan for the day when he's staring at her with eyes so bright.

"So, which one do you want to match first?"

She turns back to the movies, fingers tripping over the covers. "I want to say _Finding Nemo_ , because it's my favorite of the three," she says.

"But?"

Her gaze flicks up to him, smile apologetic. "But I'm scared a movie about a father fearing for his son will hit too close to home," she admits, words quiet as her hand presses harder to the round of her belly. Her gaze falls when his smile falters, guilt welling, strong enough to have her reaching forward, gripping at one of the plastic cases. "So, how about _Tinkerbell_?"

He nods, taking it from her without hesitation, banishing her opportunity to wallow as he pops the disk from its case, reaches forward to set it in the cradle of the DVD player.

She still hates herself for the reminder she'd offered, for making the glee fade from his eyes like it had, so her fingers curl tighter around the light fabric of her sheet, tugging it tight to her chest. "Rick?"

He turns from the DVD player, offering a quirk of his lip in response. "Hmm?"

"I love you."

And his happiness returns, subdued, but enough to have her smiling back at him, pulling the sheet back so he can crawl into bed with her as the movie begins.

* * *

The credits for their fourth movie of the day, _How to Train Your Dragon_ , are rolling when laughter spills from her lips, Rick's mouth curled into a smile against her forehead. His arms tighten around her, tugging her closer to him so her head falls against his shoulder, her smile hidden in the fabric of his shirt, words muffled when she speaks.

"You think I'd have done _that_?"

He nods, rushed and happy and making her smile widen. "Kissed me out of nowhere _right_ after getting mad at me?" he says. "Definitely something you would do."

She shakes her head, leaning back so she can rest her chin on the round of his shoulder, staring up at him with a smile. "Sorry, babe, but that's so _not_ something I would do," she tells him. Her cheek falls against his chest, weight sinking into his side as he pulls her even closer. "I'm more of the run as soon as I detect feelings type."

"Oh, are you now?" he says. "You didn't seem to run when you started having feelings for me."

"Couldn't," she reminds him. "My heart was failing. Running was highly ill-advised."

It was meant to be a joke, marked with a teasing smile curling at the corners of her mouth, the lock of her gaze on his, but the weight of the statement settles like cement in her stomach. A stark parallel to her current situation, trapped in a hospital bed at the hands of a circulatory system failing to behave as it should.

At least this time she's strong enough to lift her own head off her pillow.

He squeezes her, tight and quick, at the words, pressing a soft, slow kiss to the top of her head, his breath a heavy exhale against her hair. A sigh of gratitude to match his display of affection, the wrap of his arms around her body. His hand settles on her baby bump after a moment, as though his mind is racing with the same thoughts as hers, the same worries.

Their son kicks within, drawing a smile to her face, easing the ache in her chest.

She expects Rick to let her go after a moment, slip away to place the next movie in their marathon in the DVD player. _Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs_ , she supposes it would be. They'd watched _Tinkerbell_ and _Kung Fu Panda_ , skipping _Finding Nemo_ out of fear of the emotions it may arise, and then he'd presented her with _Lilo & Stitch, How to Train Your Dragon _and _Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs,_ once again allowing her to choose the order.

It's been a good distraction, sinking into the mindless entertainment of films meant for children, imagining a day when their healthy son would curl up on the couch and watch with them, falling asleep before the credits started rolling.

But he doesn't slip away this time, lingering in her hospital bed with her, so she finds herself sinking deeper into him, eyes falling closed so she can enjoy the caresses of his hand over her baby bump.

"Do you think he'll be like Hiccup?" she says.

Rick stills at that, and she glances up to see the furrow of his brow, the thoughtful pinch of his features. "Like Hiccup how?" he asks. "Training dragons? It might be hard for him to find one, but I'm sure he'd do his best if he did."

She chuckles, pressing the sound to his lips when she sees his smile. "Not training dragons," she clarifies when she pulls away, watching his eyes sparkle with knowledge, with love. "Creative and kind, always seeing the best in everyone, like you."

His responding smile is soft, sweet, a glimpse of his appreciation of her compliment that has affection unfurling in her stomach, has her pressing forward to kiss him again. She sinks back into his arms afterwards, head lulling against his shoulder, hand drifting along the round of her baby bump so she can twine her fingers with his, drag his palm to where their little boy's kicks can be felt today.

Rick is silent for another moment, humming softly as he thinks and it takes her a moment to realize he's replicating the tune of the DVD menu that plays on repeat.

"He might be," he says at last, turning so he can press his chin to the top of her head. "But if he's like Hiccup, he'd also be brave and pragmatic, like you."

The smile tugs at the corners of her cheeks, face pressing against his shirt to hide the blush he shouldn't be able to draw from her any longer. The giddy happiness evoked by his compliments, his simple admiration of her that she doesn't understand but finds loosening the self-doubt that constantly clutches at her thoughts, at her dreams.

"I could see him being like Hiccup," she says. "Minus the dragon."

"Well, we could get him a cat. Or a dog. What do you think? Is Toothless more like a cat or dog?"

Her chuckle rumbles in her chest instead of falling from her lips, response pressed to the side of his neck. "We're not getting a dog _or_ a cat," she tells him. "Not with a new baby."

He sags at the words, sinking deeper into the pillows at their backs and drawing her with him. "Fine," he huffs, but the disappointment seems feigned when his arms stay wrapped tight around her, when his face is still alight with a smile she wants to feel pressed against her own. "But we could, one day."

"Have a pet,"

"Mhm," he hums. "You, me, our little boy and a dog or cat. It would be…good. Simple, yes, and more normal than we've ever been, but happy." His arms tighten around her, mouth pressing to the ridge between her brows. "We'll have a great life, Kate."

She forces her gaze not to flick up to the display of her blood pressure at the words, the one thing that seemingly holds all the power to derail this path he thinks they're set on. Instead, her hand squeezes his on her belly, the other curling tighter where it clutches at his side, smile weakened by fear but there all the same.

"You're getting sappy."

He shrugs. "You started it."

Her hand lands on his chest in a playful slap, the beginning of a flush creeping up her neck when she makes a show of dramatically shoving him towards the DVD player. "Shut up," she says. "And go put in the next movie."

* * *

She's falling asleep by the time the credits on their last movie of the day are rolling, head pressed to her husband's chest so the steady beat of his heart echoes in her ear as loudly as the credit music of _Despicable Me_ fills the room. She doesn't watch the roll of text, doesn't look for glimpses of characters so often added at the end of children's movies, allowing her eyes to fall closed the second the screen fades to black.

Rick keeps combing his fingers through her hair, as he's been doing for the last half hour or so, drawing strands from her face and tracing patterns against her scalp that do nothing to assuage the draw of fatigue at her mind.

He'd presented her with the final three movies right after _Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs_ had ended, smiling as he watched her unwrap her two favorite Disney movies, _Mulan_ and _Beauty and the Beast_ , before allowing her to choose which one should be the sixth in their little marathon of children's films.

That's when Dr. Davidson had knocked at the door, the sight of him popping the bubbles of joy that had been spilling from her lips as laughter, Rick's impersonations of various Disney characters dying, too. But he hadn't offered bad news, hadn't demanded she be whisked away for surgery or that her son be delivered that day. He'd listened to her heart, done another ECG and echo and offered the same abstract advice Dr. Fields had given them.

Wait and see.

But Rick made the waiting a little bit easier, has helped the hours bleed on until now, his arms wrapped around her the whole time, touch washing away the terrified spiral of her mind.

"You okay?" he whispers, his weight shifting beneath her as he reaches over, probably for the remote because the TV falls silent.

She nods, nuzzling her face deeper into his chest. "Just tired."

His arms tighten around her, lips pressing to the top of her head. "Want me to get out, let you sleep?"

"No," she mumbles.

He nods, slowly shifting them both. It takes her a moment to realize he's turning her on her side so she's facing away from him, body nestled against his, facing the hallway that lies beyond her door. His one arm stays looped under her body, a support under her neck, as he reaches past her with the other, hits the button to lower the head of the bed so they're both laying down.

His arms band around her after that, holding her close as his chest presses to her back, knees bending to trace the line of her body.

She feels her breathing start to even out, tension draining from her body as her heart settles into a steady rhythm, almost healthy. Giving off the illusion that it belongs there, that it's working properly and not–

"Rick?"

"Hmm?"

Her eyes crack open, gaze locked on the wall opposite her where she can't see anything for herself, nothing but the bright white of the hallway through the small window of her door. "How's my blood pressure?"

He tenses, and she knows the answer before he speaks.

"Doesn't matter."

Her heart clenches, sinks to settle with nauseating pressure in her gut as her breath hitches. His hand drifts from its spot on her belly at that, traces the dips of her side to span over her chest, rub the aches from the cage of her ribs until she's forced to breathe again, release her fear on a shaky exhale that does nothing.

" _Rick_ ," she chokes, pressing her hand over his, dragging it to her heart as though he's the one who needs reassurance, he's the one panicking even though she's the one struggling to keep her breathing even as it was just seconds ago.

"It doesn't matter," he repeats.

It's enough confirmation, all but the number to tell her what she needs to know. To have tears stinging at her eyes that she forces away by snapping them shut, ignoring her surroundings and forcing herself to breathe, shaky pants falling from her lips eventually slowing to something less painful.

Something that doesn't match the nightmares playing behind closed eyelids, even as she's left in the terrifying reality of consciousness.

"Sleep, Kate," says Rick, his voice grated with worry.

Maybe he is the one panicking. Maybe they're both panicking, clutching at each other but not leaning on each other as they should. Maybe she should turn around, cling to him and press her face to his chest and mutter reassurances as he so often does for her.

But she doesn't.

She stays curled up on her side, eyes still closed, forced breathing drawing her back to sleep just as he seems to want.

"Dream of our family," he adds. "You, me, our little boy and a dog or cat."

That part, she doesn't manage to do. Not for Rick, not for herself, and not for the baby who is still kicking when sleep draws her under.

* * *

 **And an eternity later, an update! I offer my sincerest apologies for the delay in posting this. A few people were wondering what happened to this story, and I _promise_ I haven't given up on it and it will be completed. Again, my health issues were acting up and paired with a few bouts of, uh, emotional instability, I decided to ditch the strict updating schedule and hopefully relieve some of the stress. I hope you guys don't mind too much.**

 **That being said, as always, immense gratitude goes to Lindsey for all her help with this story, talking me through said bouts of emotional insecurity and illness and kick-starting this chapter for me.**


	23. Chapter 23

_**December 23rd**_

* * *

Her chest seizes around the broken beats of her heart, breath escaping her lungs in a stuttered mess to match the streaks of tears rolling down her cheeks, distorting her view of Dr. Davidson as he slips from the door into the labyrinth of brightly lit halls beyond. He offers one final glance in their direction, a reassuring smile gracing his lips only to be betrayed by the doubt in his eyes.

She turns away before Dr. Davidson disappears, at the coast of Rick's fingers along her forearm, the tangle of them with hers. The smile that plays at his lips is slightly more convincing, the blue of his eyes burning with embers of faded optimism. He clenches at her hand, doesn't let go as he lifts from his chair, sits down on the side of her bed.

The utterance of _it'll be okay_ she expects doesn't come, not as his lips paint patterns of adoration and comfort to her forehead.

She presses herself tighter to him, lifts their joined hands to her belly because she can't bear to _not_ touch their child in whatever indirect way she can. Can't help but cling to the knowledge that he still tumbles within before he makes his seemingly impending, untimely arrival to the world.

"The meds aren't working," she mumbles, pressing the words against his shoulder to muffle the crack in her voice.

He already knows, had sat by her side with tense shoulders and a worried furrow of his brows throughout Dr. Davidson's visit to her hospital room. Must have witnesses the agonizing worry as it had flickered across her face, a show of heartbreak and longing for the health she lost, for the ability to silence the endless echo of questions in her mind.

How she could have avoided this. Had she been more careful, worried less, learned to meditate, _anything_. Had she gone to the doctor sooner after her shooting, cared about her own life enough to note the unnatural drain of fatigue and poor circulation before her heart was too weak to recover.

"I know," he tells her. "And I know you're scared, Kate, but this isn't a death sentence for him. He's going to be okay."

Her tears soak into the fabric of his shirt, cheek still pressed to the round of his shoulder. "I know," she whispers. "But he's going to be so small. What if he can't breathe? Or eat? Or–"

"What ifs aren't going to help," he says, clutching at her tighter as though his optimism will seep into her, root itself in her battered heart and ease her worries. "We're at a great hospital, and you're thirty-three weeks. He'll be okay. With you as a mother, he could never be anything less."

She wants to mutter about how she failed him, their son. How her body was too weak to carry him to term and, if anything, their little boy will get his strength from _him,_ from Rick. Will maintain his ability to survive the struggles of a broken body and to stay strong in the face of great terror, of all the ways their life could tear itself apart.

He's slipping away before she can, lingering at the side of her bed as he leans down, swipes something from the floor. He sets it down on the bed between their knees, a messily wrapped gift tied with a silver ribbon and it shouldn't make her smile, shouldn't have the knot in her chest loosening when it's so irrelevant in comparison to the news they just received, but it does.

Pressing forward, she reaches for it, swipes the soft package from its place to lift it towards her. He squeezes her arm like silent permission to open it now. Her fingers play at the ribbon wrapped around, coarse with a pale design of glitters tracing its edges, before tugging the bow loose and watching sparkling silver fabric fall over the plain white of her sheet.

She draws the wrapped package onto her lap then, hands clenching at the edges and poking holes in the wrapping paper. Her smile widens, eyes flicking up towards Rick's expectant gaze as she tears cracks in the thin paper, draws it back and pulls it away until she's left with a crumpled pile of wrapping and a pile of folded fabric sitting on her lap.

Her fingers are shaking, eyes still burning with lingering tears, lip quivering from the ache still heavy in her chest, when she lifts the first on from the top, lets it unfold between her hands, reveals exactly what it is. A square of soft, pale green fabric, the perfect size to wrap around their little boy and lay him in bed when he does arrive, words stitched near its edge.

 _I'll steal your heart,_ it reads, punctuated with a small red heart, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"If he's anything like you, he will," she says, words a whisper as she turns her gaze back to her husband.

He grins, his eyes falling to her chest, where they both know lies the faded scar from her transplant. "Pretty sure you're the heart thief, honey."

"Pretty sure you gave it to me," she counters, biting at the corner of her mouth. The swaddle blanket falls from between her hands, fingers clumsily grasping at the next one, a powder blue one that is just as soft under her touch.

"I'm not talking about the literal heart, Kate," says Rick, smiling down at her as he watches the second blanket unfurl in her hands.

The same sentiment is stitched into it.

She reaches for the next blanket after setting that one done over her bent knee, the soft cotton in the same shade as the first blanket stitched with a different sentiment. _I love my daddy with all my heart_ , this one reads, the sentence punctuated with an identical red heart and mirrored on the next blanket in the pile.

The next pair, in the same shades of blue and green, has tears springing to her eyes, memories making her release one corner of the blanket she'd been holding to twirl her wedding ring around her finger. _I'm made of all my mommy and daddy's best pieces._

Her gaze flicks up to Rick's, her tentative smile widening at the echo of the final portion of his vows playing in her mind. _And from now on, you will carry a piece of me wherever you go_ , he'd said, holding her hands as they'd stood on the beach.

She swallows back the bittersweet rise of knowledge that her son will be the greatest piece of her left in the world if her broken body steals her too soon. Forces herself to look away from Rick before she can break his heart with the words.

The next pair of blankets has the pained tears at that thought fading to something happier, the words a whispered echo in her head when she flattens the blue fabric to her baby bump.

 _I love my mommy with all my heart,_ it reads, punctuated with a heart and drawing a quivering smile to the corners of her mouth.

And the last two have tears tumbling down her cheeks, have her pressing the soft fabric to her face to sniff the fabric that will one day smell of their son.

 _My daddy gave mommy his heart, and now I have theirs_ , they read, a curly font, another small heart, and the words have her own flipping in her chest.

She looks up at him, eyes wide and brimming with tears that have her vision swirling.

"I hope he has your heart," she tells Rick.

He doesn't argue like he usually would, just drops a kiss to her head, massages the tension from her shoulders as she clutches the blankets in her fists.

* * *

Dr. Davidson's visits are planned, scheduled, justified by the press of a stethoscope to her chest and his silent analysis of data being spit out by her heart monitor. They have her breath stuttering in her chest and worry settling like a stone in her gut, hands flying to her stomach even though he visits with the intent of checking her chest and not her baby. They're _terrifying_ , but they're not a surprise.

Dr. Altman showing up at her room midday with a smile and a quiet knock at the door _is_ a surprise. Has Kate's brow furrowing as she turns to Rick in an attempt to ensure that they hadn't forgotten an appointment he'd had with his own cardiothoracic surgeon. But he looks as surprised as she feels, only to spring into action in seconds, welcoming his doctor into the room.

"I'm not intruding, am I?" asks Dr. Altman, stepping past the threshold, gaze sweeping over the room.

Kate can't help but wonder if the doctor who specializes in hearts and lungs often finds herself in the supposed haven that is the maternity ward.

"No, no," says Rick, and Kate shakes her head to confirm, offering the doctor a small smile. "What brings you around?"

Dr. Altman turns her attention to Kate. "I heard you're blood pressure isn't cooperating, and while I can't bring a miracle, I can bring my well wishes," she explains. With a quick motion, she pulls the stool the only Dr. Davidson and Dr. Fields ever use from the corner of the room, situating it by Kate's bed. "I know you're not my patient, but I did help treat you, and I do care, and I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do."

"I wish there was," says Kate, the laugh that tumbles from her lips self-deprecating, broken on a note of sadness. "But you've already done so much."

Dr. Altman was their miracle, the brain to provide a flicker of an idea and the heart to see it through, giving them the chance at the life they have, at a future _together_ , at this baby.

"Doesn't keep me from wanting to do more," she says, pausing for a moment, gaze flicking between Kate's face and the swell of her belly. "You're thirty-three weeks, right?"

Kate nods, Rick speaking the quiet _and two days_ for her, and a small smile blooms across the doctor's face at the words.

"He's going to be okay," she offers, smile never faltering even as Kate feels her own face fall, the words too familiar now to have cool relief soothing the relentless burn of worry in her chest. "I know it doesn't mean much. I've treated enough children to know that parents will always worry, no matter the odds, but with his odds _and_ both of your genes? He'll do great."

Kate shakes her head, biting her lip to cage the words she couldn't dare speak in front of Rick, not when his eyes already shine with sympathy and the knowledge that she blames herself. Things she would consider telling Dr. Altman, getting an opinion from a less biased person, if she didn't know they would break her husband's heart more than their reality already does.

"I've tried to tell her that," says Rick, and her heart clenches even though his words lack and twinge of accusation or dejection, are laced with only a simple acceptance that she won't believe her son will be okay until he's in his world and she can see for herself. "We're just…really worried."

Dr. Altman's smile remains soft when she turns it from Kate to Rick, understanding gleaming in her eyes as she nods. "You guys are parents," she says, "you'll always worry, especially after everything you've been through."

There's another lull, drowning silence that has Kate wishing she could believe that another epiphany could light up in Dr. Altman's mind, that the doctor who once saved her life and Rick's could give their baby boy a little extra time to grow. That her hands weren't coasting over the swell of her belly with budding acceptance that within the span of a few days it will no longer be a baby bump, but the lingering evidence of her son's growth within her.

"There is one thing I can offer," says Dr. Altman. "I know it's not much, but how about a distraction?"

* * *

The hospital roof is nothing special, just another landscape of industrialism to match the peaks of buildings lying all across the city. It's covered in machines that vibrate with effort and silence is broken by a constant whirring, and somehow it seems more comfortable than the silent sterility that lies below.

She's draped in blankets to keep the chill from biting too harshly at her skin, her IV still pumping fluids and medication into her bloodstream, body trapped in a wheelchair. The hand not limited by the strategic loops of fabric around her wrists to avoid obstructing the stream of medication rests on her belly, feeling her son kick beneath the stretch of her skin like he can feel the gusts of fresh air, too.

It was only with Dr. Davidson and Dr. Field's approval's that Dr. Altman allowed them to escape to the roof at the end of her shift. accompanying them but lingering at the door.

Rick, however, stands by Kate's side, hands curled tight around the handles of her wheelchair, presence warm despite the cold of a New York December. Lighting up the night as much as the Christmas decorations that hang from balconies, bridge gaps between buildings as though to match the new links formed in the city when the holiday season sweeps over it.

It's beautiful, no matter the machines that surround her or the loud whir they emit, soft with joy and winter and love that will soon be lost come the New Year.

But the best part is the snow.

Flurries of white fall from the sky in sweeping patterns to match the wind, swinging through the air as it sinks to earth, pristine and perfect until it hits the ground and is stained by a city made beautiful by gleaming metal rather than the freshness of its environment. It's her favorite part of the winter, has been since she was a little girl and would rush onto the sidewalk in useless thick boots to catch flakes on her tongue, her parents slipping on the ice to catch up to her.

Her head falls back against the edge of her chair, mouth opening to feel the cold rush of melted snow over her tongue, and Rick chuckles from where he stands behind her, even though she knows he loves to do the same.

His hand releases her wheelchair to smooth over her shoulder, slipping beneath the thick layers of blankets to feel the warmth of skin that lies beneath. He squeezes gently, but doesn't say a word, his lingering presence behind her enough to whisper reassurance into her heart, warm the moment no matter the winter cold.

She's the one that speaks, head still tilted back so her gaze can catch his as he stares down at her. "He'll know this," she says, a whisper, a breath swept from her lips to his ears by the wind. Not a question, not right now when she can feel their son's life as a rhythm against her skin.

"He'll know all the joys of life," says Rick.

Her smile quirks at the corner of her mouth, genuine for once. Snow splatters across her face, sweeps across her cheeks until they start to burn from the cold, melting as they touch her skin. A wash of freezing water that traces the paths on her cheeks, forged by the tears that usually roll.

"Rick?"

His hand tightens at her skin, and she reaches up with her free one, maneuvers the rises and falls of her frame to keep from disturbing the careful spread of fabric over her body. Her fingers loop around his, drawing him to her side with a gentle tug that must say enough because he steps the rest of the way without further beckoning.

He crouches down so their gazes are level, a tentative smile curling at his lips. "You okay?"

She nods, mirroring his smile until he presses forward and smudges them both. His hand reaches out, lands on her belly, thumb sweeping wrinkles into the blankets, and she slips hers underneath it to feel the weight of his touch.

"I think we should give him a name," she says.

His brows raise with the widening of his eyes, mouth opening ever so slightly in surprise that she can't blame him for. Not when she's spent the entirety of her pregnancy too hesitant to give their little boy a name, scared in some irrational way that the universe would force him to be born if she did.

But the universe is already stealing his last seven weeks of growth within, and their son needs a name now, before he makes his untimely arrival.

"Okay," Rick responds, the words drawn out with hesitance like he's scared she'll change her mind.

She won't, her next words already curling at the tip of her tongue. "And I have an idea."

His hand curls around the blankets, his grip weakened by the layers between them, and he nods. "What is it?"

Her gaze flicks between him and her stomach, landing at last on the sparkle of curiosity in his eyes. "I want to honor my dad," she whispers, "everything he's been through and overcome, and everything he's done for me. So, James? As a middle name?"

Rick nods. "I love it," he says, pausing to lean forward and drop a kiss to her shoulder. "And a first name?"

She turns away from him, only for a second, to where Dr. Altman is leaning against the cement hospital wall, watching them with a soft smile just like the one she used to offer when she'd watched them fall in love. When she turns back, he already seems to understand, lips digging into his teeth, silence forcing her to explain.

"She gave us our lives. None of this, especially not him, would have been possible without her," she whispers. "So, Theodore? Teddy for short?"

This kiss he presses to her lips, hard and fast and grateful and amazed, is answer enough, but he breaths it with a burst of fog anyway, his forehead falling to rest against hers.

"It's perfect."

* * *

 **Again, I offer my greatest apologies for the delay in updating, and my sincerest gratitude to all who still take the time to read this story, and to Lindsey for all her help and support.**


	24. Chapter 24

_**December 24th**_

* * *

Her lashes flutter over her cheeks as she blinks her eyes open, darkened fatigue swirling in her mind and limiting her awareness to the splices of black they cast across her vision. Only for a second, until a sigh heaves at her chest, an inhale fading to a yawn, and the flurry of motion from beyond draws her attention instead.

She doesn't catch whatever he was doing, nestled away in the corner of the room, but when the yawn subsides and she can focus on him, he's standing at her side, hovering over her with worry gleaming in his eyes. His hand already rests on her arm, rubbing soothing circles against her skin like he expects her to be in pain.

"Sleep okay?" he asks, voice light despite the concerned look in his eyes.

Her response in a hum, gaze flicking down to his wrist before she thinks better of it, unwilling to face the panic sure to come with the realization that her rising blood pressure has her energy disappearing once again.

"What were you doing?" she says instead, forcing a smile at the pinch of his brows.

But he does turn away, squeezing her arm before the warmth of his palm lifts, his hand motioning instead to the room around them. How she'd missed it before, she doesn't know, brain scrambling for justification for her poor attention to such obvious details.

The plain pink wall is now bright with decorations hanging from weak pieces of tape, plastic pictures of Santa and all nine of his reindeer, garlands slipping from the glue's grip. The whiteboard has been erased to be drawn upon with slashes of green and red, images of holly berries and leaves framing the words _Merry Christmas Eve_ written in a purposefully steady version of Rick's familiar handwriting.

To her right, it remains mostly blant, but stickers like those people press to storefronts are tainted by the metal of the door to which they're pressed, checkered by wires in the security glass window.

And to her left is the window, decorated the same, looking almost like it was done by a child with the pictures' haphazard placements and odd angles. It's lined in garland and a string of jingle bells that only ring quietly through the air when Rick reaches out to tug the strand from which they hang. It all frames the Christmas tree, so small, dwarfed by the bulbs hanging from its branches. Beautifully simple with it's small canopy of branches and short trunk sheltering the pile of presents beneath it.

"Decorating?" she questions the obvious.

He shrugs. "I figure if Christmas is tomorrow, we could use a little more Christmas cheer," he says, leaving it unspoken what the flicker of his gaze tells her. That he's doing it for her, awaiting her reaction and the lift of worries from her shoulders that comes for a split second only to fade when her gaze lands on the world beyond her window.

The city they call home, bustling with joy and life, and her gaze flicks back to his, her smile forced but not before his face has fallen.

He's careful, adjusting the blankets and pressing himself into the sliver of space between her legs and the edge of the mattress, his hand landing on the round of her hip.

"You okay?"

She swallows around the lump in her throat, the guilt and regret that spills from her lips all the same, a choked mumble of broken syllables that has his grip on her tightening. "I'm sorry."

His fingers coast along her side, trace the rise and fall of her side and tickles lightly at her baby bump before continuing its journey to curl at her shoulder. He rubs the tension there, the knots born not from new worries, but from long days spent trapped in the confines of a hospital room as fear for her little boy haunts her every thought like whispers from the back of her mind.

"What are you sorry for?" he asks.

Her gaze flicks back to the window, the small span of city she can see from where she lies. "For making us be stuck in here," she mumbles. "You love Christmas and you should– _we_ should be celebrating at home. You should be going all out with decorations _there_ and he shouldn't be about to be born and–"

"None of this is your fault."

He shifts, hand still resting on her shoulder as he stands and sits back down in the chair he so often occupies by her bed. His other hand wedges itself between her face and her pillow, thumb tracing the lines of her features that have softened with her pregnancy, swelled just enough to match the rest of her.

"You need to stop blaming yourself, Kate," he whispers, soft and sincere. "This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault." Her teeth catch the corner of her mouth at the words, holding back her protests. "Sometimes things happen and they're nobody's fault. Was it my fault that I had IPF?"

She shakes her head at that, eyes widening at his words, at the implication that she could ever think so.

But he's smiling softly, knowingly, her reaction exactly what he was hoping for, as betrayed by the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "This, you having high blood pressure, is no more your fault than that was mine."

Silence falls at the words, light and swirling with the phantom echoes of now-quiet jingle bells, but she can't bring herself to speak. To agree despite the crushing weight in her chest, or to disagree and watch pain for her spread across his face as though she's a constant reminder that things aren't as good as he wants them to be.

So he's the one who breaks the silence, his words mixed with forced lilts of feigned joy. "Look on the bright side, there are worst places we could be."

She scoffs. "Than the hospital?"

He nods, slipping his hand into hers. "This is the first place we shared," he says, his smile turning genuine as she feels her own features soften at the memories. "It might not be home, but it's still an important part of our story." He pauses, leans down to kiss her head quickly. "I have something for you."

His touch slips away again, body dipping so he can lean down, reach below her bed, her teeth still digging hard into her lip in anticipation of what's to come. He straightens again not with a large gift or a bunch of individual onces in his hand, but with a pile of papers clutched between his palms. It's not a large stack, by no means a manuscript, but it's enough to have her brows furrowing, fingers scrambling to take it from him so she can see what lies on the pages.

The first one is mostly blank, printed with only the words _Our Story_ spelled in black ink.

But the second begins with a large number one like the first page of a new chapter in a book, the story beginning below the sharp angles of the figure.

"There's eleven of them," says Rick, "for the eleventh day of Christmas."

She nods, slow and steady, gaze already skimming the first of the stories, tracing the words of the beginning of their life together, breath catching in her chest as she reads.

 _You were wheeled into my room the day after Mr. Johnson died, seemingly asleep, perfectly silent._

* * *

He makes her put the stories down when dinner comes, laughing at the tears welling in her eyes as he takes the bundle of pages from her hand and sets a glass of water in her fingers instead. The stories are set on the ledge under the window, his free hand coming up to swipe the tears from her eyes, press a kiss to her lips, his smile matching hers.

She ignores the bland flavor of her dinner, the distinct lack of salt in the soup they'd provided her as she takes the first bite. Rick watches her, taking quick bites of the poor excuse of a burger he'd gotten from the hotel cafeteria.

Sometimes, this part feels almost normal. Even though they don't spend their evenings bumping hips and cooking side by side and no glasses of wine are perched in their hands like there used to be, before she got pregnant, the hospital can't steal the simple joy of his company as they share a meal, the conversations they share in the privacy of her hospital room.

"Which one are you at?" he asks, swallowing his bite and motioning with a quick flick of his gaze to the series of stories.

Her smile is soft, the back of her hand swiping across her lips as she swallows. "Just finished the sixth one," she says, gaze falling, cheeks burning red at the confession.

She's usually a fast reader, and the stories aren't long, just snapshots into the time they shared in a hospital room on the cardio wing, days and moments in their budding love story that stood out to him and have happy, sometimes bittersweet, memories swirling in her mind. On a normal day, she'd be finished them by now, but with fatigue drawing at her mind and temples pounding from her elevated blood pressure, she's faded in and out on consciousness with little time to read.

The first had been the day she was wheeled into his room, but then there'd been the day they were released, and of their first kiss, of the first time they met. The fifth story had been a recount of a day her interactions with his family had opened his eyes to how much he cared for her, and the sixth–

"PT, right?" he asks, swallowing another bite of his burger.

She nods, taking a spoonful of soup to hide the wide spread of her smile across her face. She shouldn't be happy, not when he's resorted to throwing a blanket over her vitals monitor and she can feel the worsening effects of her blood pressure as the meds give out, but hearing his point of view on their relationship has joy bubbling within anyway.

That particular memory had been of one of the first times they'd done physical therapy together, her session drawing him from his bed out of sheer desire that they spend more time together beyond the simple contact of holding hands. But it had detailed not only the details of their slow transition back to normal life, but his pride for _her_ as he'd watched her force herself to walk the halls, as he'd felt her struggle under his touch, their arms looped together, and her strive to push through all at once.

"They'll do that for him, too, you know," he whispers, eyes staying locked on her face as her brows furrow, lips twist into a frown. He sets his burger aside, reaching for her hand that doesn't cradle her spoon. "He might be born early, but he's going to leave this hospital perfectly suited for life as a normal baby boy."

Her throat clogs at the words, already minute appetite dissipating. The spoon clatters to the table, gaze falling to her baby bump so she's not looking at the unjustified knowledge in his eyes.

"I watched you die, Kate. They literally took your heart out of your body and replaced it," he says, words a whisper, hesitant as though he's waiting for her to stop him. "But that day, I realized you could be okay. You were walking pretty well, and doing better than I'd ever seen you, all because of what this hospital did for you."

His hand clenches around hers, the other landing on her stomach and her lashes beat against her cheeks when she looks back up at him.

"And look where you are now. You're still a kickass cop, and we're in this great relationship, and you've carried our little boy for thirty-three weeks even though nobody thought you could," he says. "It hasn't even been two years and already nobody would guess that you had a transplant."

He presses against her stomach gently, still smiling as she watches him pull away. His fingers slip from hers to wrap around his coffee cup instead, and he takes a quick sip before speaking the conclusion to his makeshift monologue.

"My point is, that he might be born in the next few days, and he might have struggles, but just like they did for you, the doctors here will make sure that in a few months, he'll be so healthy that nobody will know."

His smile is so certain, his gaze unwavering, that she finds herself mirroring it. Her gaze sweeps over his frame, the man who had _two_ organs removed from his body and replaced, who sits with his spine straight and joy always bright across his features and life blooming red in his cheeks.

A picture of health no matter the struggles he's faced.

And she lets herself hope, for a moment, that he's right, and their son will take after them.

* * *

She's woken in a haze of rushed footsteps and hushes voices, the world a blur only for her to register the beeping from her bedside and Rick startling at her side, the hand she'd been holding in her sleep flying from her grasp. Even with eyes blinking open against bright hospital lights, everything is a haze of white, her mind a scrambled mess unable to decipher more than pristine walls and her husband's vague silhouette and the noises that surround her.

There's a beeping that's new, only familiar enough to have bile rising in her throat and her chest aching for reasons she hopes is merely fear and next thing she knows a nurse is silencing it as a doctor swipes the heart monitors from her chest.

She can still barely see when a plastic band is wrapped around her arm, a distant voice informing her that they're just checking her blood pressure and pulse. The cuff tightens at her bicep, and cold fingers scramble clumsily to feel the thunder of her heart beneath the paper thin skin at her wrist.

It's only then that she becomes aware of her headache, pounding in her temples to make panic rise stronger within, and that she realizes her vision isn't clearing up completely no matter how many times she tries to blink the haze away.

"Kate?" comes a voice, and her head rolls against the pillow, the pain intensifying at the motion, gaze landing on who she assumes is Dr. Davidson. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired," she chokes out, her voice strangled by the fear welling up her throat. "Headache. Can't see properly."

His sigh is soft in a way that has her imagining him swallowing it back, and still in a blur, he turns away. There's a rustle of paper, a few hushed whispers, probably from him and Dr. Fields looking over the data being released by the various systems monitoring her and the baby. Rick, always at her side, uses the time with the hospital staff turned away to slide his hand into hers, rub the tight clench of her fingers away with his own.

"You'll be okay, Kate," he says. "You'll be okay."

For the first time, it sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as he is her.

"I–"

She's cut off by the doctors moving at her side, coming to stand between her and Rick, her mind sharpening the image of them to a possibly incorrect view of them side by side, her chart clutched in Dr. Davidson's hands.

"Kate," he says, "due to the risk to your elevated blood pressure poses to you, especially to your heart, we think it's in your best interest–"

"And the baby's," fills in Dr. Fields.

"That you have an emergency C-section," he finishes.

The breath stutters from her lungs, no matter how expected the news is, how clear this future had been. Rick tightens his grip on her hand, shifting so he's closer as though he could somehow protect her from the information, the subsequent onslaught of emotions. As though he could make the nod of her head less meaningful, less final, and the press of consent forms into their hands less painful.

Preparation for her surgery is also a blur, for reasons beyond her blood pressure's impairment of her vision. A rush of nurses in and out of her room, adjusting her IV and the fluids and medications it provides, asking her to change into a different kind of gown and offering support as they come and go. Rick tugs on the paper scrubs they'd ordered him to put on, his silhouette a blur of blue and she makes him take a picture of himself so she can laugh at him later in a feeble attempt to comfort herself.

He sits by her side, holding her hand and rubbing her belly and pressing promises that the outside world is great and he's going to be perfect to the skin under which their baby lies, his touch soft only to cease when the doctor's return to the room.

They wheel her out on her bed, both doctors offering promises that this is the best course of action, that they will do their absolute best to make sure she and the baby are as healthy as possible.

Walls are a white blur around her, blue scrubs surrounding her and she only knows which one is Rick because he's leaning in close and never lets go of her hand. His voice remains a constant mantra of _you'll be okay_ and _he'll be okay_ and _it'll all be okay._

She tries to believe him, to clutch to the thought that this is a new beginning and not an end, even though it feels like one, like an–

"Rick?" she chokes out, fingers tightening around his to silence the loop of reassurance tumbling from his lips.

He hums. "What do you need, Kate?"

"The stories," she says, "I only read the first ten."

His face is so close that no matter the haze of her vision, she can see his features soften. "You'll read the last one later."

She shakes her head. "But I wanna know," she mumbles. "Please, Rick, I just wanna know."

He nods, the motion of her bed ceasing and she realizes, heart sinking, that they must be outside the OR. "Okay. Okay." He smears a kiss to her forehead, another to her cheek, his face closer now so she can see the love shining impossibly bright in his eyes. "It was about the day we had surgery, waking up and realizing that we were going to be okay _together_ , that we got our lives back because Dr. Altman and Dr. Davidson saved us."

The smile comes despite everything, the quick bob of her head stopped by the press of his lips to hers, the kiss of their foreheads when he pulls away.

"And you're going to go in there, and they're going to make sure you and Teddy are okay, too, okay?" he says, a whisper against her skin.

She swallows, nods. "Okay."

And then there's the click of a button being pressed, the too-loud _whoosh_ of doors swinging open.

"We'll come and get you before the surgery begins," says Dr. Fields.

Rick doesn't look away as he mumbles his understanding, pressing one last kiss to her lips, his face still so close that the worry in his eyes is visible, the last thing she sees before he fades to a blur and the OR doors close between them.

* * *

 **As always, a huge thank you goes to Lindsey for betaing this for me.**


	25. Chapter 25

_**December 25th**_

* * *

The world is dark, her brain a jumbled mess of stimuli and thought and there are fingers running up and down her arm. And her stomach hurts, and her mouth is dry, and her feet are still prickling with lingering numbness, and–

Her eyes fly open, the hand holding hers clenching as they do, and Rick stares back at her, a small smile on his face, worry gleaming in his eyes.

She can see again. She assumes it means her blood pressure's gone down.

"Where is he?" she asks, words husked and grating at her throat, which Rick must notice because he's reaching to the table by her head in a moment. He holds a glass with a crooked straw poking out from below the rim out for her, but she shakes her head. "Where's Teddy?"

The smile he offers at the question is soft, reassuring and she knows the answer before he speaks it. "In the NICU," he says. "Do you remember him being whisked away?"

She nods, tears stinging her eyes, worsening the tightness in her throat, the memory burned in her mind. A nurse had wrapped him in a blanket and brought him to Kate, held him close so her blurred vision didn't keep her from seeing his little face before carrying him back and rolling him from the ER with other nurses and a doctor who introduced himself as a neonatologist.

She'd cried then, too, watching the unclear image of her son being swept away as Dr. Field's voice informed her that they were going to be stitching her back up.

"Did you see him again?" she asks.

His teeth catch at his lip as he nods, eyes flickering with insecurity as though he's afraid the answer will hurt her. As though he can't predict that it has relief unfurling to know that he's seen their little boy, probably sat and his bedside and heard from his doctors and maybe felt the touch of his tiny fingers and is still sitting at her side with a smile on his face.

"How is he?"

Rick squeezes her hand again, draws it up so he can dust kisses to her knuckles. "He's beautiful," he says first, love, reverence heavy in his voice. "He's so perfect, Kate."

She smiles at the words, feels love swallow her whole from within like it did when she first heard her son cry into the business of an operating room and saw his flailing figure over the sheet separating her from the doctors. Love for her son, this perfect little boy nestled away somewhere in this building. For her husband, who's face is alight like his life has been made in the span of the last few hours, like he's never been as happy as he is right now.

"But?" she manages, hoping the question doesn't ruin it.

It doesn't, he keeps smiling as he kisses her hand again. "He can breathe on his own, but he's on supplemental oxygen," he says. "And he has a feeding tube."

Her smile falls for a half second, returns when she notices that his still hasn't. When she remembers that all that was expected, explained by doctors in the lead up to Teddy's birth as possible risks, spoken of like minor issues he would grow out of after time spent in the NICU. When she remembers all the other, far more serious risks that could have been but aren't.

She tugs on his hand until he's leaning towards her, pressing forward so his lips land first on her forehead, his kiss gentle and burning with relief, and though she hasn't asked about her condition, it's enough to assure her that she's doing better. And then she tilts her head back, catches his lips with hers so she can feel the warmth of his smile, of his love as he breathes it into her mouth.

His eyes are shining even brighter when he pulls away, flaring with affection when she further tightens her grip on his hand.

"Did you get a picture of him?" she asks.

He doesn't answer, turning away instead so he can set the glass he was still holding down and scramble for his phone instead. The brightness of his screen lightens up his face far more than that which spills from the halls outside her room, makes his eyes look like they're glimmering like fresh snowflakes as they flutter from the sky.

Her breath stays trapped in her chest as she watches him swipe his thumb across the screen, the rush of anticipation rushing through her veins far more numbing than the dose of pain medication they'd given her.

Then he's turning it to face her, showing her a picture of their little boy that has her wiping tears from her eyes in seconds, before they can distort her view of their son.

He's lying on his back, head turned towards the camera, little eyes closed to keep out the glaring white light of the NICU. The feeding tube disappears into his nose, taped to his cheek with wrinkled, gleaming plastic. Oxygen tubes are draped over his face, pressed into his nose just like those they'd tugged over her own head as she'd laid on the OR table. Wires are pressed to his chest with stickers to monitor his heart rate.

And he's _beautiful,_ his face a picture of peace despite the machines attached to him, stealing her breath with his perfection and replacing it with a flood of love like she's never imagined possible until now.

She has to force herself to tear her gaze away, finds it flickering between Rick and the phone all the same.

"When can I see him?" she asks.

"I'll go ask a nurse."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head, smoothing his fingers over matted hair and stilling her nod of acceptance as he does. Her gaze stays locked on the phone as he disappears from the room, on the image of her son, of Teddy, until her eyelids droop with the effects of pain meds and surgery on her body and Rick's return is nothing but a wisp of sound and a kiss to her hand before she falls back asleep.

* * *

They make her wait until the sun is rising over the city, until the effects of the spinal block have worn off and she can wiggle her toes with ease and Dr. Fields has checked both her incision site and vitals, before allowing her to go. A nurse helps Rick lift her from the bed, careful for the slice through her abdomen, and lower her into a wheelchair, clicking her IV pole into place so it rolls along with them. She accompanies them all the way to the NICU, where another nurse takes over, escorting them to Teddy's room with greetings and a warm smile.

The NICU, she finds, is different from the rest of the hospital, the walls painted in hues of pastels and a hush falling over the entire ward out of respect for the parents accompanying their ailed infants. Sinks with soap, hand sanitizer and boxes dispensing gowns dot the walls periodically, sterility a stronger presence than in any portion of the hospital she's ever occupied.

Teddy's room isn't a private one, and the nurse informs them that it's a good thing, indicative that his health is satisfactory to be separated from others with only a curtain and the box of glass keeping him warm. They all wash their hands before entering, but the nurse informs them that the clothing they're wearing is okay to visit their son.

He escorts them inside, his smile not faltering as he holds the door open and Castle pushes her past the threshold, her wheelchair bouncing over the strip of metal separating the room from the hall.

Longing has been burning in her blood, rooted in her bones, since she'd watched nurses sweep Teddy from the OR, but it blooms within her now, heavy in her chest and stealing her breath as her gaze lands upon the family whose baby occupies the bed right in front of the door. The mother sits in a worn rocking chair, the baby cradled to her chest, a bottle in her mouth, and the woman looks up only briefly to offer them a smile before turning back to the baby.

She reaches back, presses her hand over Rick's, and he must understand because in a moment he's turning her, pushing her deeper into the room as the nurse leads them past another bed before ducking between two curtains to reach the third one.

Her breath spills from her chest as shattered remnants of an exhale before she even sees him, eyes locking on the blue piece of paper trapped in a pouch at the end of the incubator.

 _It's a Boy!  
_ _Baby's name: Theodore James Castle  
_ _Mother: Katherine Beckett Castle  
_ _Father: Richard Castle  
_ _Date of birth: December 24th, 2013, Time: 11:58pm  
_ _Weight: 4lbs, 5oz, Length; 17in_

Her son.

Rick squeezes her shoulder gently, leaning forward, and when he speaks, his breath is a dust of warmth to her skin. "He couldn't have waited two minutes, could he?" he says, laughter an undertone to each syllable that has a smile tugging at her lips.

"He just didn't want to be a Christmas baby, babe."

It's easy now, and the realization would be startling if not for the renewed motion of her wheelchair, the bubble of anticipation replacing the shock that would be sparking in her mind. That a comment so simple, that would have torn her apart just a week ago, can now fall freely from her lips with the knowledge that her son is _here_ , right in front of her and–

 _Perfect._

Her breath hitches, vision distorting under a haze of tears that she wipes away with shaking fingers so she can keep staring instead. At the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his closed eyelids, purse of little rosebud lips. He's _tiny_ , dwarfed by the incubator in which he sleeps, by the world around him, his torso the size of her hand, his head small enough to be cradled in her palm.

She squeezes Rick's hand again, grounding herself as her world tilts on its axis, turns upside down as she stares at her son's little face, as Castle wheels her forward so she's sitting right next to him.

With an upwards flick her gaze, she hopes the look in her eyes is enough for the nurse to catch her question because love has clogged her throat too much for her to speak. He offers a nod, motioning to the incubator with a slight jerk of his head, in response, and in a second, she's raising her hand to the glass separating her from her son.

The first touch sends a spark of love from the tips of her fingers to her racing heart, the skin of his arm soft under her touch. She feels him react as her fingertips trace the line of his arm, press to his small palm, and his hand curls into a fist around her finger, face scrunching up and toes curling despite the monitor strapped to his foot.

She still can't breathe, can't force her lungs to work under the crush of affection welling in her heart, but she forces the words past the lump in her throat, syllables cracked with emotion as they fall from her lips.

"Hi, Teddy."

Her thumb coasts over his knuckles, tiny fingers clenched around hers, and his touch flutters again, tightens in a way that has her lips curling upwards into a smile. Behind her, Rick rests his hand on her shoulders, leans forward and drops a quick kiss to her head before looking up with her, sharing her view of their little boy.

"I'm your mommy," she adds. "I'm sorry I couldn't keep you inside me a little longer, but you know what? You seem pretty perfect anyway." She swallows thickly, feels Castle's fingers clench at her shoulder. "You're pretty healthy, you know. And you're going to get through this, okay?" She pauses, purses her lips against nothing to ease the desire to press a kiss to Teddy's small head. "You're so strong, baby."

"That he is."

She jumps at the voice, heading zipping to face its source, her fingers still caught in her son's grasp. The neonatologist from the OR stands in the room, the soft smile spread across his face making him perfect to deal with families stuck in such tense times, further easing the remnants of worry.

He steps deeper into the room, staring at him through the lenses of his glasses as he speaks. "Your son is a very strong and healthy baby, Mrs. Castle."

* * *

The sway of the rocking chair beneath is comforting in its steadiness, easing the stress and allowing her to fade away from the pain of recovery. When she closes her eyes, it's just enough to have her imagining what would have been had he not been born early, if they were hope. The nursery with its accents of red and crib in which Teddy would be lying right now, fast asleep as she would be sitting nearby, watching him until her own eyes started drooping.

But they're not home, and she's reminded of that fact with the rustle of curtains around her, the soft beeps of machines that's only ever present in hospitals, the incessant bright light that keeps darkness from reaching her completely no matter that her eyes are closed.

The nurse stands at the edge of the incubator, making careful work of adjusting Teddy after his diaper change, ensuring all the wires and tubes are still in place as they should be. He turns towards them, offers a smile as he informs them he's just going to get the doctor for a quick checkup.

Kate's eyes stay locked on Teddy as the neonatologist, Dr. Walker, conducts his checkup. As a stethoscope is pressed to Teddy's chest and fingers press gently to his stomach and the information displayed on his monitors is verified. Her breath stays trapped in her chest, escaping in shudders forced only by her body's need for air as she waits for something to be wrong, for something else to come and turn her life upside down.

But when the doctor turns to her and Rick, it's with a smile so genuine and calming that for the first time since Teddy was born, her breath comes almost easy. "Your son has been stable since his birth, and shows no signs of distress with movement. In my opinion, he's healthy enough to be held."

Her teeth catch her lip to cage the gasp that hitches in her chest, Rick's hand clenching tighter at her shoulder. Tears return to her eyes, gaze flicking between the incubator and the doctor until he's speaking again.

"Would you like to hold your son, Mrs. Castle?"

She nods without a second's hesitation, her hand covering Rick's on her shoulder. Tilting her head back, she catches her husband's eyes and then his kiss, feels relief and joy spill into her mouth before he's pulling away, pressing his cheek to her crown so they can watch the doctor and nurse maneuver Teddy from the incubator.

There's so many wires that they disconnect, monitors that they promise will cause him no harm to not have on him for any limited period of time, but the feeding tube, tiny IV and oxygen stay with him as the nurse helps bring her closer and the doctor holds Teddy carefully in his arms. Her hospital gown is drawn down her chest with promises that skin to skin contact will be good for both her and the baby, blankets lifted from cabinets. Rick pulls the stool he's sitting on closer, so he can press himself to her side, offer support through his warmth.

The first press of her son to her skin has her crying, his _tiny_ body cradled between her palms, hovering between her and the doctor and then she's pulling him closer. His head rests in the crook of her elbow, his head resting over her heart, and she wants to close her eyes and enjoy the warm weight of him against her, the sensation of his chest rising and falling with his breath, but she can't stop _staring_.

He's still perfect, even more so now with less wires attached to him and his face flattened adorably against her skin. His lips are puckered and a tiny fist rests by her collarbone. He's still asleep, and she wishes she could see the hazy blue of his eyes like she got glimpses of earlier.

Rick presses a kiss to her head, hard and fast and laced with all the words he must not be able to speak any more than she can. Can't force past the pounding race of her heart and the love that seems to have replaced the air in her lungs, any semblance of thought in her mind as she stares at their little boy. Especially when Rick pushes himself from his seat, drapes one of the blankets the nurse had been holding over her and Teddy.

Her heart stumbles over a beat when she watches her husband lean down to press a kiss to Teddy's head, his eyes falling closed and tears leaking from the corners, his relief tangible, love spilling into his every breath.

It would be impossible to fathom if she didn't remember it so clearly, the months of _not_ wanting a family that preceded her pregnancy, the idea that the risks could outweigh _this_ so stupid now, looking back.

Because this is everything. It's—

"Perfect," he breathes, drawing her gaze up. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to her head. "You're perfect. Both of you."

She responds with a smile, arguments impossible when her husband is staring at her like _that_ , when her son sleeps against her chest. "You are, too," she says instead.

His smile goes impossibly wider, but then he's stepping away, slipping towards where they'd sat before, returning with a hand tucked behind his back. The other reaches out, rests over Teddy's head, tracing patterns of his light brown hair, barely more than fuzz over his crown.

"I have something for you," says Rick. "I know we said we weren't doing gifts, but you still need your twelfth day of Christmas."

She nods, eyeing his arm and then their son, wondering twelve of _what_ could possibly be hidden behind his back.

But when he pulls out the gift, it's a single thing. A book, with an unfamiliar cover and a title that reads _Heat Wave_ and the author marked as _Richard Castle._ He flips the cover open, to a single page left mostly white and stained only with splash of black ink spelling out a short sentence at its middle.

Rick holds the book as he reads, still leaning close, caressing their son's head, his fingers coasting gently over the crook of her elbow.

 _To the love of my life,  
_ _Kate Beckett,  
_ _who stole my heart._

Twelve words. Twelve perfect words that tell of their past and offer promise for a brilliant future with their love and their son and everything she never thought was possible when she was first wheeled into a hospital room with a heart broken in more ways than one.

And she looks back up at Rick, leans forward only for him to press his lips to hers first. Teddy sleeps on between them, his breath warm against her chest, his heartbeat an echo of hers that rattles her heart and her world.

"Thank you," she whispers, eyes locked on her husband's.

"For what?"

"For giving me your heart," she whispers. "For giving me all of this. My life. My love. _Him._ "

She looks down at her son, imagines he does the same. The book falls to rest on her thighs as his other hand comes up, curls around Teddy's small fist and rests them both over her heart.

"Kate," he says, "you don't have to keep thanking me. I needed this just as much as you did." He presses his lips to the crown of her head, and she feels his smile against her skin. "Thank _you,_ Kate. For everything."

* * *

 **Thank _you,_ all, for taking the time to read, and hopefully enjoy, my belated return to this universe. I would also like to thank everyone for their well wishes and support through my struggles with my illness, it certainly brought a smile to my face.**

 **And, as always, immense thanks goes to Lindsey for her help as a beta and as a friend, for talking me into writing this despite my hesitance and pushing me to continue through my bouts of insecurity. I hope you know how much your help and support is appreciated. xx.**

 **Callie**


End file.
